


Courting Watson: Romantic Applications of The Scientific Method

by Devi_the_Wynter_Wytch



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock - Fandom, Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Case Fic, Drama, First Time, Friends to Lovers, Humor, M/M, Parentlock, Post S4, References to Drug/Alcohol Use, References to Suicide, death of a minor character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-16
Updated: 2018-07-13
Packaged: 2019-05-24 05:17:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 52,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14948289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Devi_the_Wynter_Wytch/pseuds/Devi_the_Wynter_Wytch
Summary: In order to meet all of John’s needs and prevent him from leaving, Sherlock offers the recent widower a sexual relationship.  As John considers his options, he slowly comes to the realization that Sherlock isn’t the only one who has demons buried under the road.  As the months pass, John grapples with his own sexual identity, the meaning of love, and what truly constitutes a family.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Pairings: Sherlock/John, some references to past John/Mary, John/OFCs and Sherlock/OCs
> 
> Rating: E for consensual slightly graphic male/male sexual relations.
> 
> Status: Complete -- consisting of a prologue and 10 chapters. I will post 2 chapters per week. It takes an inordinate amount of time to cut and paste and re-format everything. AO3 hates me.
> 
> Length: Novella length Word count: 52,248
> 
> Timeline: This story begins a few months after the conclusion of The Final Problem and covers a span of about four months.
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own any of these characters or the universe created by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle in which I now play. I reap no financial rewards from writing fan fiction. I do this solely for my own pleasure and, hopefully, feedback.
> 
> Speaking of Feedback, Yes, please! This is my first foray into The Sherlock Universe of fan fiction, so any feedback you care to give is helpful. However, please be fair with your feedback. Constructive criticism is appreciated. Flames are not. Please do not read this story if slash offends your sensibilities and then send scathing criticism.
> 
> Additional Notes: I am going largely by canon as it is portrayed in the four seasons of BBC shows spanning 2010 to 2017 as aired in the U.S. on Netflix with supplemental information from the writings of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle as I remember them. I am not a native Brit, and although I have tried to ensure spellings, slang, and other word usage follow the British model, I make no guarantees as to perfect authenticity. My spell check strongly dislikes the British variations. If you see an obvious error, please do let me know.
> 
> Beta Extraordinaire: The Amazing NeuroticKitten, who graciously picked through this mess when it was just one huge run on paragraph without chapter delineations and made a coherent novella out of it. Please accept my most heartfelt thanks for all of your hard work.

Prologue

In retrospect, when enough time had passed that John Watson could look back on the events of that autumn and winter objectively, he was of the opinion that Lestrade was responsible for it all. Mycroft maintained that it was all Sherlock’s doing, and Mrs. Hudson insisted that it was all due to the alignment of the stars being in the House of Capricorn or some such utter shite. Whatever.

John was certain that someone was to blame, and if he was ever able to pinpoint the guilty party with any degree of real certainty, that person was going to pay…and pay dearly for the complete debacle that was about to become his life. As John later came to learn, it all began at the Red Lion Pub, four streets over and just west of his flat on Baker Street.

Since Mary’s death six months before and the hellish events surrounding the psychopathic manipulations of Sherlock’s demented sister Eurus, he had tried diligently to follow the advice of his therapist, the real one, and get out more…socialize with people and attempt to maintain ties to his community and friends. To that end, he had been meeting with friends, colleagues, and even a few members of his old regiment on Friday nights at the pub. Why, Mrs. Hudson had even stopped by a couple of times on the way to her weekly euchre tournament and, if John remembered correctly, had complained bitterly (after three large appletinis) about how Eustace McGinty insisted that there be no re-deal for a Farmer’s Hand. Whoever was available showed up, had a pint or two, and John usually left feeling warm and happy, the support of his friends carrying him through another week.

Most weeks, unless Sherlock had a case of at least a level 7, John guilted the consulting detective into accompanying him. He knew that Sherlock would almost certainly rather be doing something … _anything_ … else, up to and including re-organizing his sock drawer, but John figured what was sauce for the goose was, well, sauce for the other goose too. It would do Sherlock a world of good, he reasoned, to get out and about a bit more, to laugh and be seen as just one of the guys, and although Sherlock rarely participated much in the discussions since John forbade him from deducing people to bleeding ribbons—he mostly sat and morosely stared into his scotch---the mere fact that he seemed to be making at least a minimal effort went a long way to assuaging a few members of the NSY. Donovan had even, albeit somewhat grudgingly, stopped referring to Sherlock as _the freak_.

Life was better for them both. John was healing slowly but surely, adjusting to life as a single father. Although he was never quite certain that was the appropriate terminology. Since moving back into 221B Baker Street, Sherlock had taken on a lot of the responsibility of caring for Rosie’s needs. However, on any given day, Sherlock was just as likely to be a hindrance as to be a help, leaving John with the definite feeling that he was raising two children instead of one.

On the one hand, he was grateful that Sherlock had babysat for him Wednesday evening, the night he had late hours at the clinic. On the other hand, the fact that Sherlock had used food coloring that he had ‘liberated’ from Mrs. Hudson’s kitchen cabinet to mix up finger paints for Rosie had been a nightmare of epic proportions. Sherlock had argued that food coloring was chemically inert and therefore completely safe. John seethed quietly and wondered how his fucktard genius of a flat mate hadn’t bothered to consider that most food colorings formed the bases for indelible dyes. Rosie’s face and hands had closely resembled a mutant Picasso painting for just over a week, a fact both she and Sherlock had seemed to delight in. All in all, he supposed it could be worse, and it did make for a few spectacular and highly memorable baby pictures.

It was perhaps the fourth or fifth Friday they had all met at the Red Lion that an offhand, slightly slurred remark by DI Greg Lestrade changed the course of John Watson’s life forever. John had never known Greg to imbibe more than he could handle, but that morning had seen the arrival of Lestrade’s final divorce papers. And, despite the fact that Lestrade’s now ex-wife was a ball busting bitch, at least in John’s humble estimation, the DI was taking the divorce harder than anyone had anticipated. As Greg raised his fifth shot and chased it quickly with half of his second pint, he bitterly remarked something to the effect that if you didn’t meet 100% of your partner’s needs, it was inevitable that she’d leave you eventually. No one, not even Sherlock—at least he denied it vehemently -- remembered precisely what Greg had mumbled that night. But, whatever it was, it set off a chain of events that got Big Brain thinking, which was never, ever, anywhere in the realm of good.

Big Brain was the part of Sherlock’s mind that dealt with sentiment and emotions, whenever Sherlock chose to acknowledge that such things existed or deigned to admit that he felt them twinge in his own heart on occasion. John had surreptitiously named Big Brain after Big Bird, the giant yellow canary on the American children’s show, Sesame Street. Like Big Bird, Big Brain was apt to take emotional information any sane human being would find specious and useless at best, overanalyze it to death and reach a conclusion that ranged from “A bit not good, Sherlock” to “That’s absolutely fucking insane, Sherlock!”

Unknown to John, Sherlock was about to take Lestrade’s casual, drunken analysis of marriage, a comment that Lestrade would no longer remember he had ever uttered when he sobered up the next afternoon, to a place even other high functioning sociopaths fear to tread. And he would do it all with impeccable logic and deductive reasoning based soundly on the scientific method. John Watson was doomed.

Chapter End Notes: Euchre is a card game for four players, two partners per team, who attempt to either make their point, if they have named trumps for that hand, or to set the other team if that team has named trumps. It is popular in portions of the US, most of Canada, New Zealand, and Great Britain. It is generally fast paced and can be extremely cut throat. A Farmer’s Hand is commonly referred to as ‘no ace no face’ and is almost always grounds for a re-deal.

I couldn’t find an exact date in canon for Mary’s death, so based on the weather in the episode as aired and what little google could supply about weather in London in general, I guessed and put her death in early March, which means this story begins circa early September.

Chapter 1

The Scientific Method

Step 1: Identify the Problem

 

“Really, John?” Sherlock chuckled softly to himself. Using Rosie’s date of birth as the password for his laptop. “You could at least have made it a little challenging,” Sherlock mused under his breath.

John had just taken Rosie for a Saturday afternoon stroll in the park, giving Sherlock, in his best estimation, at least an hour before John returned to the flat and caught Sherlock mooching his computer. Not that that was at all unusual. But, since Sherlock planned to break into John’s private blog, the one he kept on his laptop in the file marked ‘porn’ thinking that it wouldn’t interest Sherlock, the blog he didn’t think Sherlock knew anything about, well, he had to make sure he had enough time to erase any and all time stamps and digital fingerprint traces of his incursion into the file.

Ordinarily his conscience would niggle at him for something like this, and for some reason, his conscience sounded like John repeating over and over, “bit not good, Sherlock.” But, needs must, he supposed.

Since John had moved back into the flat on Baker Street a few months ago, Rosie in tow, Sherlock had adapted surprisingly well to the new arrangement. He had always gotten on well with John; he liked having someone fuss over him, making sure he ate regularly and slept on occasion. The fact that John was above average in intelligence, (nowhere near Sherlock’s level of genius, but acceptable all the same), was tolerable and made even more so by the serendipitous but beneficial effect of elevating Sherlock’s own powers of deduction. Simply put, having John as a sounding board amplified Sherlock’s cunning, genius, and sheer cleverness exponentially.

John was exceptionally loyal, good in a fight with fists or firearms, not lacking in bravery, and able to check some of Sherlock’s wilder escapades and downright dangerous proclivities. In short, John Watson made Sherlock Holmes a better person and a better detective. Rosie was an added bonus. At first Sherlock had viewed her as competition for John’s time and attention. Somewhere in the first week that had changed and morphed into his opportunity to raise a child, to impress his knowledge and skills upon the next generation, to leave a lasting legacy of brilliance without all of the baggage and mess (i.e. romantic emotional entanglements) that generally accompanied fatherhood.

He had everything he never knew he wanted, but now that he had it, he was determined to keep it.

Lestrade’s callous, drunken remark had scared him, a cold, icy knot forming in his gut and radiating tendrils of emptiness and despair. It would be so easy to lose this—this niche he had carved for himself in John’s life…this happiness. He had to make sure John was happy, that all of his needs were being met, that John had no reason to leave. Hence the breaking and entering he was currently perpetrating upon John’s laptop. Fifty-one minutes later Sherlock closed the laptop with a soft snap after reading the last ten private blog entries and wiping all traces of his electronic fingerprints from the computer’s hard drive.

He had a serious problem.

When John returned, Sherlock was deep in his mind palace sorting information and rapidly devising and discarding solutions as he turned the full power of his genius to ensuring that all of John’s needs would be met, thus ensuring that he would stay.

The problem, as Sherlock saw it, was that John was about to start dating again. Although he had not yet posted it, the rough draft of an online dating profile had been contained in John’s last blog. He was lonely, obviously. How John could be lonely when the man had Sherlock, Rosie, and The Work, Sherlock couldn’t quite fathom, but it must be so else John would not have written of his “aching loneliness” in his last blog entry. To be on the safe side, Sherlock decided to take the words at face value rather than assume the blogger was devolving to dramatic license as he was prone to do in his public posts.

John’s solution to the “aching loneliness” was to begin dating again. Clearly these little weekly jaunts to the Red Lion were insufficient to meet John’s needs for companionship and friendship. John also saw this as a way to “give Rosie a positive feminine role model” (ridiculous—she already had Mrs. Hudson, Molly, and Sherlock’s own mother cooing over her constantly) and perhaps if all went well “secure a real family with a mother” for Rosie.

So far as Sherlock was concerned they were a real family. Rosie’s needs were being met just fine by John and Sherlock and their coterie of friends and extended family. Surely John could see this? He made mention throughout his numerous blogs of all of the wonderful experiences Rosie was provided due to this unusual and varied upbringing. This must be a red herring then. John was using this argument to bolster his decision to begin dating again, to help assuage a bit of a guilty conscience. He must be feeling a certain amount of guilty shame since Mary had only been dead for six months and pesky social conventions frowned upon dating before a full year of mourning had elapsed.

Sherlock considered the problem. He could sit back and let John start dating again. But, given the calibre of woman John usually selected that meant there would be a parade of half-witted, selfish, clingy, manipulative idiots that Sherlock would be forced to endure. He shuddered at the very thought. They would disrupt his life and The Work, and that simply mustn’t be allowed to happen.

It was too much to hope for that John would find another Mary Morstan, or whatever her real name had been. Lightning generally does not strike the same place twice; while not impossible, it was highly improbable that John would ever find another intelligent, thoughtful, daring mate who would actively encourage John’s dangerous pursuits with Sherlock. No, the more likely scenario was that John would settle for a woman who would subtly or not so subtly push Sherlock out of John’s life a little at a time until John was firmly ensconced at home, a dried up husk of a man yearning for excitement and adventure. Therefore, it was up to Sherlock to save John from himself. Why, it was practically Sherlock’s duty to do so, he reasoned, as John’s best friend…best man even.

This left Sherlock with only one question to answer. What would a girlfriend provide John that Sherlock was not currently providing? As soon as Sherlock identified that thing(s) and addressed the problem, John would be happy and stay. So, what did the insipid dolts provide? Companionship? No, Sherlock took John with him on cases; in fact they went nearly everywhere together, except when John had to work at the clinic. Excitement? No, most of them simply wanted a meal out and some ridiculous rom-com at the theater. Boring. When one of them inadvertently got caught up in one of their cases, it was pretty much the death knell of the relationship.

Of course! Sherlock metaphorically smacked himself on the forehead as he sat in his mind palace. He had been focusing too much on the women. Mistake. He forgot with whom he was dealing. What did John ‘Three Continents’ Watson want that he wasn’t getting from Sherlock? Why sex, obviously! If John wanted sex, then Sherlock would see to it that he got it, and plenty of it. He wasn’t going to lose John over something so trivial.

Sherlock exited his mind palace humming softly to himself. He was surprised to see that it was dark out. A glance at his phone revealed it to be a quarter of midnight. Shrugging, Sherlock pulled on his Belstaff and quietly exited the flat so as not to wake Rosie.

“The Diogenes Club,” Sherlock said hastily, giving the address to the tired taxi driver who pulled smoothly into the light, late night traffic as Sherlock’s fingers fairly flew, texting quickly.

Ordinarily, he’d run his deductions by John, but since John was the current focus of his deductions, Mycroft would have to do. If Mycroft concurred that his reasoning was sound, and Sherlock was completely certain it was, he would need to begin seducing John Watson right away.

Please, leave feedback. I've never written Sherlock/John, and I am really nervous about this.


	2. 2

Chapter 2

The Scientific Method

Step 2: Background Research

Mycroft Holmes simply hated calling in favors. He preferred to bank them, let them accrue interest for a while, and then let them sit growing ever larger until they were an enormous, unpayable debt so that when he finally had to use one the interest was still sitting quietly in the bank—another favor to be called in at a later date.

He had had to call one in prematurely this morning, and it rankled. He had gotten Sherlock assigned to a case that NSY had initially thought was a murder/suicide but on closer inspection had proven to be a locked room murder/murder. Inspector Dimmock, who had worked with Sherlock once before and resented his arrogant high-handed methods—despite his success, still believed NSY could solve the case themselves, but had grudgingly relented when Mycroft pointed out that time was of the essence and that every moment the case went unsolved another flight was leaving out of Heathrow with a potential murderer escaping scot free.

Although cashing in this favor prematurely irked Mycroft to no end, it did give him an opportunity to speak with Dr. Watson alone before Sherlock could make a muck of things—a most definite certainty, and Mycroft shuddered to think how that conversation would have gone. Allowing tactless, socially inept Sherlock to actually proposition the good doctor…Mycroft shuddered again as he considered the potential for disaster that could only be measured on the Richter Scale…, which is how Mycroft found himself currently seated on a bench outside of the penguin exhibit at the London Zoo.

As John settled Rosie in her pram for a brief nap, he was startled to realize that the impeccably dressed gentleman who had just sat down next to them was Mycroft Holmes. John’s first thought was “Oh God, this cannot be good.” It was quickly followed by “This has something to do with Sherlock. What has he done now?”

“Good afternoon, Dr. Watson. Pleasant day,” Mycroft said jovially.

“Mycroft,” John greeted the other man, at a sudden loss as to how to follow that up. Demands for information would get him nowhere as would pleas for particulars. Best simply to sit and wait. John sighed. Part of him wanted to simply shout “Well, get on with it!” after a few minutes of silence. The other part of him sat in awed silence, never having witnessed Mycroft Holmes, The British Government, so noticeably speechless and at a complete loss for words.

At last the older gentleman cleared his throat. “Sometime in the next few days, Sherlock is going to clumsily and inelegantly proposition you, John.”

“Beg pardon?” John murmured, completely bewildered. Surely he hadn’t heard that correctly.

“Sherlock is going to attempt to initiate a sexual relationship with you,” Mycroft stated flatly.

John laughed until tears came, the laughter coming to a choked standstill when John realized that Mycroft hadn’t so much as twisted his lips in a smirk. “Surely you’re joking,” John said on a gasp, looking for any signs of humor in that cool façade. Finding none, he stared slack jawed at Mycroft feeling as if he had just been transported to the Twilight Zone. “You must be mistaken. We’re talking about Sherlock here—you know, married to The Work Sherlock,” John said at last.

“I assure you that I am neither joking nor mistaken. Sherlock has determined that you desire a sexual relationship, that to that end you are about to resume dating, and that such a course of action will be detrimental to the current domesticity,” Mycroft’s lip curled slightly in derision before he proceeded, “he now enjoys with you and the child. He has, therefore, concluded that in the interests of maintaining the status quo, it is imperative that he offer you sex. His deductions are impeccable, and his conclusions are logically sound. He lacks the ability to factor in the emotional aversion you are likely to mount to this suggestion, but I cannot divert him from this course of action, much as I have tried.”

John sat, staring unseeingly at the penguins for several long minutes. “So, why are you telling me this?” John asked musingly. “Surely you didn’t think I’d accept such an outrageous proposal, did you?”

“No, I did not,” Mycroft said with a slight sneer as he turned cold, sharp eyes on the smaller man seated next to him. “I did it to spare Sherlock another vicious beating at the hands of his supposed best friend,” Mycroft said coldly.

John’s eyes flashed fire, and as he opened his mouth to defend his himself, Mycroft held up his hand saying, “Please allow me to finish. Then you may say whatever you like. I will explain myself, but know this first; if you strike my brother again, there will be consequences, serious consequences, and believe me when I tell you that they will be most unpleasant.”

Mycroft crossed his legs and settled more fully onto the bench as John eyed him warily, inwardly seething. The only thing preventing him from verbally lashing out at Holmes the elder was the shocked, hard lump currently lodged in his own larynx.

“You have a nasty habit, Dr. Watson, of letting your fists fly when Sherlock does not act in accordance with the manner in which you feel he ought to behave. You know Sherlock. You know he is not like other men, that he frequently displays the emotional depth and range of a teaspoon. You also know that despite this flaw he is, in his own way, a good man who has no wish to hurt you or cause you pain. Yet when he miraculously returned from the dead, you hit him, repeatedly, even as he tried to explain the reasons behind his deception.”

“I know…,” John began, but the elder Holmes cut him off almost savagely.

“You know nothing!” Mycroft hissed coldly. “I read your blog, Dr. Watson. It’s a way to surreptitiously keep tabs, to some extent, on the antics of my brother. I know you believe that he was on some “grand adventure” during the years he was dismantling Moriarty’s criminal empire. Your words, not mine, doctor. What you do not know was that when he jumped off of that building, you, Mrs. Hudson and DI Lestrade had the neon red of a laser sight burning into the backs of your heads. He jumped to save your lives. Had any of you acted suspiciously, said or done anything to indicate that Sherlock was not dead, you would have been killed instantly. Despite that, Sherlock tried to tell you that it was a hoax, “a magic trick” I believe he called it. He gave you the clues, inasmuch as he could on a wireless line, hoping that with time and perspective you would deduce the truth when it would be safer for you to do so. You simply failed to make the correct deductions.”

“I know that now, but it doesn’t change the fact that if he’d just told me…”

“What?” Mycroft demanded. “If he had just told you, you would be dead. You would have either followed him, or you would have been unable to realistically sustain the not-so-polite fiction that Sherlock had committed suicide in the immediate aftermath of the events when you were under the most intense scrutiny imaginable. Don’t flatter yourself, doctor; you’re not that good of an actor.”

“Then I would have gone with him, backed him up,” John asserted in a hot whisper, trying to ensure that he didn’t wake the peacefully napping Rosie.

“As I said before, there was a target painted on the back of your head. If you had tried to accompany Sherlock, you would have led the assassins straight to him, and you would both be dead. For what it’s worth, I am sorry for the pain and grief this caused to you, but things had to play out in this manner. There was simply no other way.”

John sighed and looked at the hard packed dirt underneath the bench, but Mycroft wasn’t yet finished and continued as if there had been no segue to the conversation.

“When Sherlock did return, he had just been released from hospital where he had undergone extensive reconstructive surgery. It took the best reconstructive surgeons in the world to put Humpty Dumpty back together again. When I finally managed to extricate Sherlock from the assignment, he had undergone intensive torture in a Serbian prison. He was higher than a kite that evening at the restaurant on a combination of pain killers, anti-inflammatories, antibiotics and other medications with no thought other than that he had to get to you. He needed to end your suffering, your belief that he was dead. And how did you react? You struck him, repeatedly.”

“I …,” John began only to be ruthlessly cut off.

“You struck a man who refused to fight back, who clearly was demonstrating all of the markers of extreme pain had you taken the time to notice, a man who had suffered torture, hunger, deprivation and constant jeopardy for years to keep you safe,” Mycroft concluded on a cold hiss. “I am not at liberty to give you any further details, and neither is Sherlock,” Mycroft said quietly as he saw John attempting to form a question. “This mission was, and still is, classified above top secret.”

John had apologized to Sherlock after that incident, but as guilt began to gnaw afresh at his innards, he wondered if perhaps he didn’t owe Sherlock a heartfelt ‘thank you’ as well.

“And then,” Mycroft continued smoothly, “there were the events that transpired following Mary’s death. You withdrew from life into a fantasy world and Sherlock, to put it bluntly, went off the rails. Again, he did not behave as a normal man would behave, and you ended up beating him, rather savagely in fact. And again, he did not fight back.”

“I wasn’t in my right mind!” John replied hotly, failing to modulate his voice as he jumped up to face Mycroft.

Rosie snuffled as if she were preparing herself for a good cry, and both men held their breath as she settled back down with a whimper.

“Are you going to hit me now, Dr. Watson?” Mycroft inquired archly as he gestured toward John’s clenched fists. “If you elect to do so, I assure you I will fight back, unlike Sherlock,” Mycroft replied coolly.

John took a deep breath and unclenched his hands before sitting back down. “Sorry,” he murmured softly. “Not sure why I did that.”

“I do know,” came the even reply as Mycroft continued. “You were consumed with grief, John, but you were by no means subject to a break with reality. You could distinguish fantasy from reality; you knew right from wrong. You were angry; angry with Mary for making the choice she made, angry with Sherlock for breaking a vow that no man could ever uphold, though he did his best; and angry with yourself for failing to protect the ones you love, for being helpless. Regardless, you assaulted Sherlock viciously, savagely and without mercy until he lay broken and bleeding on the floor at your feet. You’re a doctor; you very well know that you could have seriously injured or killed Sherlock that day, especially given his pre-existing physical condition—a single kick could have meant a ruptured spleen, a lacerated liver, the list goes on, but I doubt I need to.”

John looked down, flushed a deep red and said nothing; words lying choked and mute in his throat. Again he had apologized when he had calmed down, and Sherlock had forgiven him, but that didn’t negate the hot shame that consumed him whenever he was reminded of his complete loss of control. John swallowed hard past the lump in his throat.

“I know. I don’t know why…” John trailed off at a loss for words as Mycroft reached into the breast pocket of his suitcoat and extracted something white. John was poised to decline the handkerchief when he saw that the white object pressed into his hand was not a scrap of fabric but a business card.

_Dr. Charles Wallace, M.D., Ph.D._

“He’s a therapist, a real therapist, unlike that hand-holding, mollycoddling idiot you are currently seeing,” Mycroft said dismissively. “He is the one I send our agents to, the ones who have been tortured, the ones who are burning out or self-destructing. If you really want help, call him.”

John studied the card intently. “Thanks, but I don’t think I need it. I’m doing much better lately,” John said with a small, sad smile.

“Really?” Mycroft said, eyebrow quirked for emphasis. “You just admitted that you’ve no idea why you lose your self-control where Sherlock is concerned, and you don’t think that’s a problem?” He glanced at Rosie’s pram briefly before refocusing his eyes directly on John. “Do you really want to perpetuate the cycle of abuse and violence onto the next generation? Your grandfather, your father, your alcoholic sister…” Mycroft trailed off delicately. “Do you truly want to become what you most despise?”

John felt a hot flood of rage that Mycroft knew about the drunken abuse in his family. It was quickly replaced by despair as he realized that the other man was right. He could have very easily done serious harm to Sherlock the last time he had completely lost it, and without addressing the root cause of his anger issues, it could happen again. He didn’t like to think it could, but above all, he was a practical man and acknowledged truth when he saw it. The violence he was capable of, that he felt clawing away in his guts in the long dark of night, it frightened him as nothing else did, not even war.

“You know, don’t you?” John asked, “Or at least you think you do. You said before, “I do know.” Bloody Holmes’ and your deductions. Go ahead then,” John said bitterly, “Enlighten me. Why does Sherlock make me completely lose my mind?”

Mycroft studied the man in front of him, damaged, proud, angry, guilty, and just a little bit desperate. “If I thought you really wanted to know…”

“Yes,” John said determinedly. “Yes, I really want to know. You’re not Sherlock, but you’re just as much of a genius in your own right. You’re just as good at the deduction thing as he is. I’ve seen you do it. Go on, then. Tell me.”

“Very well,” Mycroft conceded. “I am either about to cost the NHS thousands of pounds in therapy or save it the same amount, and I really have no idea which it is,” he said as he crossed his arms and studied John intently. “You’re in love with Sherlock,” Mycroft said at last. He gazed steadily at Dr. John Watson and waited for the explosion. He didn’t have long to wait. Three…two…one…

“Have you lost your bloody mind?” John shouted, heedless of Rosie or the other nearby zoo patrons.

Rosie awoke with a shriek, and John began to rock the pram none too gently as he drew breath for another go around with Mycroft Holmes. Before he could, Mycroft raised his hand and two agents dressed in jeans and jumpers appeared as if by magic from the cover of the nearby trees. Had John not known what they were, he would have simply assumed them to be what they appeared to be: a young couple out for a romantic afternoon. Mycroft gestured toward Rosie, and the female agent scooped her up and began rocking and shushing her expertly.

“Walk with me, Dr. Watson,” Mycroft commanded in a low voice. “Rosie will be well looked after, I promise you,” he said softly as he gripped John’s elbow firmly and began leading him toward the deserted picnic area. “Before you begin sputtering again, let me explain. Oh I know consciously you think of Sherlock as simply your best friend, but I’ve seen how you look at him—looks of adoration disguised as admiration or indulgent frustration.”

“Mycroft,” John interjected with a quick glance around. “I’m straight…you know, heterosexual. Surely that hasn’t escaped your notice.”

Mycroft smiled slowly, the smile of a shark about to devour its prey, prey that has not yet realized that it’s in mortal peril. “Really?” Mycroft asked with a smug lilt in his voice. “Or is it that you became so used to saying that after your sister Harriet came out to your parents that you came to believe it yourself?”

John gasped. Bloody hell, the man was good. And not for the first time John wondered if Mycroft didn’t have listening devices planted in every television and piece of electronic equipment in the UK. John hadn’t thought about that night in years. He had just turned thirteen when a sixteen year old Harry had violated curfew and come home at a quarter to three that Saturday morning. John had been in bed soundly asleep when the ensuing row woke him. He had crept downstairs unnoticed as screaming voices parried back and forth between his enraged parents and a defiant Harry.

Rather than back down, Harry had upped the ante, proudly announcing in a voice that could be heard three streets away how she had been intimate with a girl and that she was gay. This was the nice way John’s mind preferred to phrase things as the crude words Harry had used were nowhere near this sanitized as she lewdly and loudly described exactly what she had done. The silence that descended was frightening for the few seconds it lasted, and then all hell broke loose as John’s extremely conservative Catholic parents began screaming at Harry, as their father beat her nearly senseless and then bodily threw the poor, bleeding girl out the front door and down the steps while their mother clutched a rosary and began praying, rocking herself back and forth in a sick parody of devotion.

John had crept back upstairs, shutting and locking his door, sinking down onto the cold wooden floor too stunned to move, too traumatized to cry. What followed were days, weeks, months… years of prayer, of meetings with Father Winchester, a barrage of teachings about how anything other than strict heterosexuality was to be condemned, persecuted. And, whenever his father felt John wasn’t taking the lesson to heart, he resorted to his old stand-by—his fists. Their parents had disowned Harry, who had disappeared for years after that, living on the streets and at various shelters. John was forbidden from trying to find her, not that he had had any notion of how to go about searching for her anyway. And through it all, his parents had demanded almost daily his commitment to church, god, heterosexuality and marriage.

“I imagine,” Mycroft continued, smoothly breaking into John’s disturbing reverie, “that any young man having endured what you did in the wake of that travesty would deeply suppress any and all bisexual leanings. But, as I said before, the way you look at my brother cannot be concealed. The times you become angry, angry enough to hurt Sherlock, are the times when your feelings are so near the surface that they are about to break free, times when your first instinct is to run to him, to kiss him, to love and comfort him—when he has miraculously returned from death or when he is wounded, broken and hurting. These are the times when your conditioning re-asserts itself, when you strike out viciously against that which you desire most, when you attempt to push it away, to hurt it, to eradicate its hold on your heart.”

“That’s…that’s crazy,” John stuttered. “It’s…”

“Accurate,” Mycroft interjected smoothly. “Have you never stopped to ask yourself the simple question ‘why’?” Mycroft asked sharply before resuming. “Why is it that in the two years you were residing with Sherlock you were never able to secure a solid, long term relationship with a woman? Why it was only after his alleged death that you were able to form a relationship with Ms. Morstan, despite the fact that you dated many talented, intelligent and amazing women? Could it be that so long as Sherlock was alive that you had nothing left emotionally to give them, that they were nothing more than…how shall I say this?...friends with benefits? And despite what they may have wanted, they could never be more to you, because you were and are completely and irrevocably in love with Sherlock,” Mycroft concluded with a slight tilt of his head, like a magician awaiting applause. Ta da!

John stopped walking as Mycroft’s words sunk in, his breathing becoming short and harsh, as if he had just been punched low and hard in the gut. Mycroft had been far more blunt about it, but both Sarah and Maya had essentially said the same thing to him. He had laughed it off at the time.

Mycroft raised his arm and gestured, and the two agents behind him caught up to them, pushing the pram in front of them. John was relieved to see Rosie, happy and content, awake but not yet demanding her bottle. Baby delivered, the agents dissolved quickly back into the cover of the trees as if they had never existed.

“For what it’s worth, Dr. Watson, I recommend that you seriously consider Sherlock’s offer before dismissing it out of hand. I really believe you could be good for each other, perhaps even truly happy together.”

“Sherlock isn’t in love with me,” John blurted, at a complete loss as to how this conversation had gone so far out of control but struggling to re-assert some modicum of sanity into the mix.

Mycroft considered. “As you know from the Eurus debacle, Sherlock was emotionally tortured by our sister. It changed him, made him lock his emotions away, and, fool that I am, I encouraged him to do so—to deride sentiment and suppress his emotions. That does not mean he no longer possesses them. If Sherlock loves anything in this world, it is you, John, you and Rosie... Good day to you, doctor,” Mycroft said as he turned and began walking down the concrete path, the tip of his umbrella tapping out a sharp cadence to his footsteps as he slowly disappeared from sight.

John looked at Rosie and sighed. What the bloody hell was he supposed to do now?

Chapter End Notes: So, did anyone catch the Harry Potter reference?

 


	3. 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As promised, here is the first of 2 chapters for the week. I will likely post chapter 4 after work on Friday evening.

Chapter 3

The Scientific Method

Step 2 Continued: Additional Background Information Required

 

John walked slowly back to 221B Baker Street, his mind a tumultuous swirl of conflicting thoughts and emotions. If someone had asked him later what route he had taken to get there, he really couldn’t have answered with any accuracy at all. Should he confront Sherlock first or wait for the other man to make this ridiculous proposition? Should he try to let Sherlock down gently? But, then again, Sherlock was about as subtle as a freight train. If he tried to let the other man down gently, Sherlock may not understand.

And in the back of his brain was a tiny voice, no more than a whisper, that wondered what would happen if he accepted. There was no denying that a part of him was flattered. Flattered and just a little bit curious. Anyone who had ever met Sherlock was astounded by the man’s single-minded focus and intensity. What would it be like to have that focus directed wholly upon one John Watson, to be the sole recipient of Sherlock’s undivided attention and intent to please? John shivered at the thought, and he mentally shook himself, hard. He couldn’t allow these thoughts. Sherlock could read him like an open book, always could. If he had any hope of concealing these traitorous thoughts from the human bloodhound, he had to get control of them right the fuck now.

Except he couldn’t.

_Excerpt from the private Blog of John Watson_

_I think Mycroft Holmes was either Svengali or Rasputin in a previous life—hell, maybe he was both. Once he planted the seed, I can’t stop thinking about what it would be like…to be with Sherlock, in every sense of the word. I can’t deny that most of my thoughts of late have been intensely sexual._

_Mycroft was right when he said that I had nothing left to give to the women I dated before Mary. I have been blithering along for years in a relationship with Sherlock bloody Holmes, and I never even realized it. We’re partners in almost every sense of the word, except sexual. Hell, we’re even raising a child together. I wonder if Mary knew this all along. She was far more intuitive and clever than I’ll ever be—not a Sherlock level of genius, but close. Perhaps that was the reason for all of her secret smiles when I talked about Sherlock. I wish I could ask her._

_I called that therapist and made an appointment. At the very least, I have anger control issues. And, Mycroft was right. I certainly have no wish to become my father. Rosie never needs to see me lose control like that.  I also have suspicions that my PTSD isn't quite as under control as I believed it to be.  I think I need help, and while I quite like Ella, I think she has helped me as much as she can._

_Bloody Bastard! I have never been the subject of Mycroft’s probing until yesterday afternoon, not like this anyway. Sure, he’s interrogated me to keep tabs on Sherlock, but he’s never turned such an intense focus onto me and my life. I confess that I now have a much better understanding of why Sherlock tries to avoid Mycroft at all costs. I think some truths may be better off remaining hidden. Holmes the elder has certainly managed to open up Pandora’s Box. I’ve been having flashes of memory for the past two days, bits and pieces related to the night Harry came out to our parents and the days_ _leading up to that. I’m remembering things I’ve repressed for decades, including a crush I had on a boy who lived near us. At least, it may have been a crush. Who knows?_

_Am I bisexual, or were my feelings then merely admiration and friendship, a desire for acceptance and belonging I wasn’t getting at home? Is there some attraction to Sherlock that I’ve repressed so deeply that even I’m unaware of it, at least consciously? Is Mycroft right and that’s the real reason that I fly into rages when Sherlock gets too emotionally close, closer than a friend would…should ever get? I have no answers._

_I do know that if Sherlock were a woman, I’d have a very hard time keeping my trousers from doing obscene things on a daily basis. That beautiful alabaster skin, changeable Caribbean blue eyes, dark curly hair, and a brilliant mind on a form with breasts and a vagina? Yeah, I’d be a stalker._

_Of course, the reverse is true as well. Sherlock is just as beautiful as a man, a fact I had noticed in the regular way, I suppose—the way a man notices other predators stalking the same prey. If Sherlock and I had gone to a club together, not a_ _woman in the place would have looked at me twice if I were standing next to Sherlock. And I have seen them look. Even Irene Adler, The Woman, who had her pick of pretty much any man or woman she wanted, wanted Sherlock. Which begs the question: if Sherlock can have any heterosexual woman he wants and probably most gay or bisexual men, why does he want me? It is disconcerting to say the least. It is also a bit arousing. This whole situation is fucking with my mind._

_And my reprieve is just about up. Sherlock just texted a few minutes ago. He solved the case, the one Mycroft supposedly couldn’t get me security clearance for because one of the victims was the Romanian ambassador’s son. From what I’ve been able to glean through the years of working with Sherlock is that Mycroft’s inability to secure a security clearance for me generally means the victim was well to do and the body was subsequently discovered wearing a latex body suit, a ball gag and with a giant dildo stuffed up its arse. Oh God, Sherlock is on his way back to Baker Street. What now?_  

"John,” Sherlock shouted before bounding up the stairs two at a time before slamming the door. “It was like Christmas and my birthday all rolled together. The murder/suicide that the police thought was a murder/murder was actually a suicide/murder. The perpetrator made it appear as if he was actually the victim….” Sherlock trailed off as John failed to muster the usual enthusiasm for The Work.

John clutched his nearly cold mug of tea tightly before blurting, “Mycroft came to see me on Sunday.” He looked at Sherlock equal parts dread and some weird sort of anticipation coiling through his abdomen.

“I see,” Sherlock murmured. “From your expression, I take it he explained my deductions and enlightened you as to my plans.” John nodded tersely as Sherlock sprawled bonelessly on the couch, turning his head slightly to keep John’s visage in sight. “You disapprove, then? Mycroft suggested that you would. But I assure you that my deductions are completely logical, utterly beyond reproach.”

John sighed. “Sherlock, think about this for a moment. How is this supposed to even work? I have no experience with men, and up until Sunday afternoon, I had no doubts that I was completely and utterly straight. You’re…well…you—asexual I suspect. Married to your work, remember? And you’ve no experience at all. This is insane Sherlock, and that’s not even taking the emotional aspects of a relationship into account.” John sagged back into his chair waiting for the storm of deductions that was no doubt coming.

Instead he was met with booming laughter.

“Jesus,” John muttered scrubbing his hands tiredly over his face. “I try to explain this to you so you’ll understand where I’m coming from, and you find this funny? That’s your take away from this?”

“As always, Watson, you see but you do not observe. I take it from your speech that my dear brother has already disabused you of the notion that you’re straight, so we’ll skip that one,” Sherlock said, his voice revealing traces of continued amusement. He consciously wiped the slight smirk from his lips as he continued. “Now, as to my alleged asexuality, you do recall Janine…from the Magnusson case,” Sherlock supplied helpfully. “You burst in here to find me in the bath and Janine wearing nothing but my shirt and a smile. Surely even you, Watson, were able to deduce enough about the preceding events to realize that I am not asexual.”

“I thought all of your eye rolling and the bored expression…,” John muttered slowly.

“You thought it meant what? I thought I was making it quite clear that I found her inane chatter tiresome and boring. Whatever led you to presume that I hadn’t had sexual relations with her?”

“Mycroft and Irene Adler both referred to you as “The Virgin.” I thought…,” John trailed off looking confused.

Sherlock’s lips twisted in an amused smirk. “You naively thought they meant virgin in the literal, Biblical sense. No, John. They meant virgin in the emotional sense. I have never had a sexual relationship with anyone where emotions were involved, on either side, where it was anything other than just fucking.”

John flinched at the crass euphemism. It was rare for Sherlock’s posh cadences to devolve into common street slang, but Sherlock did nothing more than raise a slightly amused eyebrow at John’s startled reaction as he continued. “People seem to think that emotions alter the equation, make sex more than just a satisfying release of neuro chemicals.”

John took a deep breath as he struggled to assimilate this new information about his best friend and flat mate.

“So, are you even bi-sexual?”

“Yes. If we were to use the Kinsey scale, I’m most likely a three.” Sherlock was being so matter of fact, and John was still floundering, blushing at even asking Sherlock these questions. But, then again, Sherlock had very little sense of personal boundaries nor any shame associated with what polite society termed social conventions. To Sherlock there was just as much stigma associated with sex as there was in discussing one’s tea preferences.

John moistened his lips slowly as he prepared to ask a question that was absolutely none of his business, knowing that Sherlock would answer it honestly, and still not quite sure that he really wanted the answer. “If I recall correctly, a three on the Kinsey scale is completely bisexual, with no preference at all for one gender or the other, isn’t it?” John said in preface, hedging for a bit more time.

“Correct,” came Sherlock’s deep voice, clear and precise.

John swallowed and finally asked the question he had been leading up to. “So, does that mean you have experience with men?” he asked softly.

“Yes.” Again Sherlock’s answer was direct and to the point.

John fidgeted in his chair, crossed and uncrossed his legs and tugged the collar of his oatmeal colored jumper away from his neck, sweat beginning to gather at his nape.

“Watson……John,” Sherlock corrected after a brief hesitation. “Remember I once told you that potential flat mates should know the worst about each other right from the beginning?”

“Yeah, and then you completely forgot to mention that you were a drug addict.”

Sherlock waved his hand negligently. “Water under the bridge. Anyway, in that same vein, potential lovers are entitled to a full disclosure of the other’s sexual history, so you needn’t feel embarrassed to ask me anything. It’s your right to know. John, if you fidget much more, the friction is going to set that chair on fire. Just ask what you want to know.”

John scrubbed the heels of his hands tiredly across his eyes. “Sherlock, I’m … I …I don’t think I can do this. I’m just curious. I just don’t see us as partners, not in that way.”

Sherlock shrugged nonchalantly and then swung his feet over the side of the couch in one quick, graceful move so that he was now sitting upright and facing John.

“ _I don’t think_ is not a definite 'no', which means there is still a chance, however small, that you might reconsider. To that end, I’ve nothing to lose and everything to gain by answering your questions honestly. So ask, John.”

John chewed his lip for a long moment. God, this was insane and becoming even more so by the second. “How experienced are you Sherlock?” he asked softly. When he saw the detective’s brows knit in confusion, obviously searching his memory for some sort of scale to qualify his experience, John clarified. “How many sexual partners have you had?”

The tension on Sherlock’s face cleared immediately. This was a question he could answer definitively and with ease. “Eighty-four female partners and one hundred seventeen male partners. Men are definitely the easier conquest.”

“Jesus, Sherlock! What were you doing, trying to work your way through an entire college campus?”

Sherlock looked adorably confused. “No, I was attempting to understand our society’s complete fascination with sex and tried to randomly sample as broad of a base as I could for comparison purposes. Sex is the motive for approximately 31% of all murders, over 80% of all blackmail scams and a significant portion of other assorted crimes.”

“So, you were attempting to collect data?” John asked quietly.

“Yes.”

John nodded thoughtfully. He shouldn’t have been nearly this stunned. Sherlock never did anything by halves. “Jesus,” he murmured again. “I’m assuming these weren’t all mutual hand jobs in a back alley somewhere,” John murmured. When Sherlock said nothing, John fixed him with a hard stare.

“I’m sorry, was there a question there, John?”

“Uhmmm…yeah….alright. So, if we were to engage in a sexual relationship, what would you want to do?”

Sherlock looked puzzled for a moment. “I would want to continue on as we have been and simply add physical intimacy into the relationship. Nothing else would change. I would not expect you to give up your job or any of that other nonsense so many other domestic partners end up fighting about.”

Damn but Sherlock was being literal. If John didn’t know just how literal Sherlock could be, he would accuse the other man of being deliberately obtuse.

“No, Sherlock. Sexually, what would you want to do to… with me?” John was hyper aware of his sweaty palms and his ragged breathing as he waited for the answer.

Sherlock chuckled softly. “John, I happen to know that you’re not some sort of sexual deviant. I doubt there is anything that you desire that I haven’t tried at least once. If you were to consent to this… arrangement …, nothing would happen that you did not want, and I would never pressure you for more than you are willing to give. Now, if you have any further questions, ask me tomorrow. I haven’t slept since Friday afternoon, and I need a few hours of sleep before I collapse. Goodnight John,” Sherlock said as he stretched and headed for his bedroom.

He only paused for a moment as he passed by John’s chair. John looked up enquiringly and was startled when Sherlock bent over and pressed a soft, chaste kiss to his forehead just below his hairline as he stroked John’s left cheek gently. He gave a startled John a soft, tired smile before proceeding to his room and shutting the door quietly behind him.

“Oh bloody hell, I am so fucked,” John murmured to himself as he shut off the light and trudged up the stairs to his room. There would be no sleep for him tonight. He knew he was going to be doing research all night on latent bisexuality and gay sex.

Leaning against the closed door of his own room, Sherlock chuckled softly to himself as he began stripping off for bed. He would have to remember to thank Mycroft later, not that his elder brother had the slightest inkling, yet, that Sherlock had manipulated him into confronting John. Mycroft had paved the way nicely, exactly as Sherlock had intended. That had gone much better than he could have anticipated, accelerating his timetable by at least five weeks.

Not only was John already questioning his own sexuality, but a tiny part of him was already considering a sexual relationship with Sherlock. Now it was time to up the ante. John was going to rebel if he remained true to form, and there was no reason to believe otherwise. He would desperately try to find a woman and get a leg over as soon as possible to reaffirm his heterosexuality and prove to himself that what he really needed was the right woman.

Contrary to popular belief, Sherlock was quite in touch with modern terminology—his homeless network made certain of it; he knew what a CB was. And he was about to become the biggest cock block John Watson had ever had the misfortune to encounter.

He could hardly wait to put part two of his brilliant plan into action.


	4. 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ***Warning***  
> This is where this story starts earning its Explicit rating. If you overlooked the E previously, you may want to stop reading now.
> 
> Also, apologies but this is a very long chapter.

CHAPTER 4

The Scientific Method:

Step 3: Develop the Hypothesis

The following morning John both felt and looked as if he were something the cat had dragged in, consumed, and then sicked up on the dining room carpet. Sherlock, the bastard, looked not only well-rested and adorably sleep-tousled, but he was in a remarkably good mood as well, despite the fact that John had spilled tea down the front of Sherlock’s shirt as they maneuvered around one another in the rather tight confines of their kitchen.

“Oh fuck,” John muttered, “I’m sorry, Sherlock. Here let me get a towel.”

But Sherlock was already peeling the gray t-shirt over his head, leaving him clad in nothing but a faded pair of plaid flannel pajama pants slung low on his hips. John’s jaw dropped as he was presented with miles of pearlescent alabaster skin crowned by two dusky pink nipples the color of warm strawberry cotton candy, tight and firm in the chill morning air. Sherlock was speaking; John was certain of it, yet he couldn’t make out a single word for the sound of the blood rushing into his ears.

“Huh?” John managed at last.

“I said, does the skin look burned to you? You are a doctor, right?” Sherlock asked with some amusement and a hint of exasperation.

“Yeah, right…,” John mumbled as he stepped forward and lightly fingered the reddened flesh that extended in a wide swathe from just above Sherlock’s sternum down to just above his navel. As he caressed the taut skin, he noticed that both nipples hardened further, the small buds of flesh tightening. He quickly swallowed the rush of saliva as the thought of tasting them came unbidden into his mind, but he couldn’t stop wondering if they would taste of strawberries. “I’ll…uh…just get the burn cream, the aloe stuff. It’s just a light surface burn. Should be fine in a day or so,” John called over his shoulder as he literally fled to the bathroom.

He shut the door and gripped the sink hard before bending over to fumble under the sink for their large and extensive first-aid kit. With Sherlock around, it was always best to be well-prepared for anything, up to and including accidental decapitation.

Sherlock smirked. The sting of a minor burn was nothing compared to John’s growing awareness of his flat mate as a sexual being. It was a minor matter to raise his elbow slightly and turn to the left as John shifted the tea mug toward the table. It was a shame that the delectable strawberry lip balm Sherlock had rubbed on his nipples hadn’t been just a tad more enticing to John’s mouth. But, still, this was progress. Phase 2 was well underway.

John’s week went downhill from there.

On Wednesday during a break between patients, he polished and posted his new profile on Find My Soulmate, an online dating site for London professionals. He had cautiously emailed seven women who lived in the area who interested him, but when he checked his stats on Thursday, he had zero replies, and five of the women had blocked him. He reviewed his emails and couldn’t find anything offensive about them at all. A quick review of his profile revealed the problem.

Somehow the title phrase “Achingly Lonely Widower” had been changed to “Endlessly Horny and Desperate.”

John made the corrections and uploaded the corrected profile. When he checked back an hour later it had been changed back. After correcting it four times over the course of one afternoon only to have it revert back almost instantly to the offensive language, he contacted customer service.

“Look,” John said firmly in a voice he was trying to modulate downwards from an irritated shout, “I’m telling you that you have a glitch in your program.”

“I’m sorry, sir, but our technicians have been unable to find a glitch. They tell me that all changes to your profile are being made from your end, not ours.”

“And I’m telling you that I didn’t label my profile “Endlessly Horny and Desperate,” John seethed. “What sane man would put up a profile like that?” he asked in a low hiss.

“Eh, we get all kinds,” the woman on the phone supplied helpfully.

After twelve more attempts to fix his profile, even going so far as to change the title completely three times with the same results, John gave the whole thing up as a bad job and deleted his profile.

Sherlock breathed a sigh of relief. If John hadn’t deleted his profile, Sherlock was going to have to invest in a backup phone battery with the amount of time he had to spend checking and ‘fixing’ John’s dating profile.

On Friday, John had planned to skip the Red Lion Pub and attend a Parents Without Partners mixer after work after ensuring that Mrs. Hudson could babysit that evening. He came home grubby, sweaty, and smelling faintly of Billy Jameson’s vomit to discover that Sherlock had been experimenting with sulphur based compounds.

As his closet was directly above the kitchen counter, all of his clothes now reeked like the rubbish tip behind a seedy dive pub. At least Sherlock had offered to pay for the cleaning bill.

Sherlock quietly congratulated himself on that bit of quick thinking. John hadn’t mentioned the mixer until that morning, and to concoct a plan that looked like a weird accident with the supplies he happened to have on hand was genius, even if he did say so himself. Sherlock spent a contented evening reading some rubbish Harry Potter book to Rosie and watching crap telly with John.

On Saturday, John announced that he had a date. The new radiology technician at the clinic, Susan or Luanne…. well, something Ann or maybe it was Lynn, had agreed to go for drinks with John that evening.

Sherlock was quietly seething until he got a call from Lestrade. “Double murder in Surrey, John! At least a 7 from what Lestrade says. The face of one of the victims was surgically peeled off. We may have a serial killer. Could be a murder/suicide. Christmas has come early this year,” Sherlock actually hummed Ode to Joy as he pulled on his Belstaff. “Come on John. What are you waiting for, an engraved invitation? The game is on!”

“Sorry, Sherlock. Date tonight, and I am not going to cancel at the last minute on Caitlyn,” John said, determined, as he finally remembered her name. Captain Watson was digging his heels in. John had never had to work so hard for a date in his life as he had to this past week, and he had no intentions of fucking it up now.

Sherlock looked like someone had kicked his puppy. Muttering “fine” in a low voice, he exited the flat. A few moments later John heard his deep baritone calling out for a taxi, then silence.

An hour later John was heartily wishing he’d gone with Sherlock. Caitlyn was smart, funny, adventurous, interesting and quite attractive. She had climbed Kilimanjaro, hiked the Appalachian Trail and gone scuba diving in Aruba. Clearly she was just as much of an adrenaline junkie as John was. If he asked her, he’d be willing to bet that she’d love to accompany him to a crime scene. John just couldn’t seem to make himself care; there was a disconnect between them, and he couldn’t stop thinking about Sherlock. But he’d be damned if he let the other man rule his life. Sherlock already laid claim to so much of John’s time and attention. If he gave anymore, he was afraid they would end up as lovers by default, an unconscious slide into intimacy because it would be so easy to just let go, to give that final piece to Sherlock.

“What’s fucking wrong with me?” he mused silently to himself as Caitlyn excused herself to use the ladies room. Here was the perfect woman and … nothing, no spark. Before Mary, he’d have extracted his own wisdom teeth with a holiday nutcracker to even have a shot with such a woman.

His phone chirped.

_John, come to Surrey immediately if convenient. Definitely a serial killer. Will text address. SH_

John ignored it.

_#11 Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey. If inconvenient, come anyway. SH_

John considered. No. He wasn’t going to be at Sherlock’s beck and call. Caitlyn was making her way back to the table. John pasted on his game face determined to really give this date a chance. He texted back quickly:

_No. Just No. And stop texting me. JW_

He then returned his phone to his pocket. Ten minutes later as John was describing a spectacular pub crawl he and a few of his mates had made just before their last deployment, John’s phone rang. Noticing that it was Sherlock, he sent it to voice mail. Two other calls from Sherlock were summarily dismissed and sent immediately to voice mail. When John’s phone rang again, Caitlyn’s soft and slightly amused “Maybe you ought to get that,” actually made John look at the phone. He was surprised to discover it was Gregory Lestrade. John offered a tentative, somewhat uncomfortable smile to his date before swiping to answer.

“John? John! Don’t hang up,” Lestrade demanded, clearly agitated. “I need you down here immediately. It’s an emergency.”

“Is it Sherlock?” John demanded. “Is he alright?” John asked as he signaled wildly for the check while throwing several crumpled ten pound notes on the table.

“Hang on a second,” he said quickly to Lestrade. He then mouthed “Emergency. Sorry, I’ll call you,” to Caitlyn as he began pulling his jacket on and heading for the exit. He had just succeeded in pulling on his jacket and was looking around desperately for a taxi in the freezing London drizzle when Lestrade broke in.

“Are you on the way, John? Sherlock said he texted you the address.”

“Yes…yes…Is Sherlock alright?” John asked as he settled back into a taxi that smelled of old cigarettes and used chewing gum underneath the more chemical strains of artificial vanilla air freshener.

“Not really, no,” Lestrade sighed. “He may not be long for this world, in fact.”

“What????” John demanded, his heart nearly stopping. Not Sherlock…please not Sherlock…please God, John prayed silently to a god he wasn’t certain he believed in anymore.

“His royal nibs is in quite the temper. Christ, if I didn’t need him on this so badly, I’d have one of the lads duct tape him up and drive him home. If one of the forensic techs doesn’t kill him, Donovan will. Please, John, calm him the fuck down before all hell breaks loose.”

The line crackled briefly and there were distant shouts in the background.

“Oh God, not again. I’ve got to go. Jesus, I don’t know what he said to her, but my crime scene photographer is sobbing and blubbering and utterly useless. Get here as soon as you can,” a harried sounding Lestrade shouted before John heard the distinct click as the phone disconnected.

When John’s heart rate and breathing returned to normal, or no longer in danger of cardiac arrest normal, he closed his eyes and sat back to think. He’d need all of his energy to deal with Sherlock on a tirade.

* * * * * * * * *

Sherlock hid his smirk in the upturned collar of his Belstaff. He should probably feel just a tiny bit guilty for ruining John’s date. And on that note, he should probably feel guilty for not feeling guilty, but well… needs must. Sherlock refused to be ignored. If John was going to try to dismiss Sherlock in favor of some inane date, then Sherlock would just have to make it so that John couldn’t ignore Sherlock. It had been only too easy to manipulate Lestrade into doing the dirty work.

It was odd, but Sherlock was having the strangest craving for Hasenpfeffer.

Sherlock sighed softly as the aforementioned guilt began to set in a few minutes later. Something, some innate sense of some unnameable thing, seemed to whisper into his mind. This was not the way to secure John’s happiness or his continued presence in Sherlock’s life. Rather than manipulate John, Sherlock decided spontaneously, he would try to support John, be his friend. If John discovered the extent of Sherlock’s manipulations, well, this could only end badly. Of course, being John’s friend didn’t necessarily exclude a little sexual teasing, either.

Phase 3 was about to begin.

* * * * * * * * *

“But John,” Sherlock whined, and boy could Sherlock whine when he was in a snit. “Anderson was contaminating evidence left and right. He was ungloved, for God’s sake, and licking his fingers as he paged through the books and papers looking for a non-existent suicide note, even after I had deduced that it was not a murder/suicide, but a straight up double murder, and that imbecilic photographer…”

“Enough,” John hissed. “You’ll wake Rosie.”

It was nearing midnight as the two men crept quietly up the stairs to their flat. They had done as much as they could for the moment. Now it was a waiting game—either the killer would strike again or the DNA, autopsy and toxicology reports would come in. Sherlock hated waiting.

“It’s a godsend that Mrs. H agreed to keep her this late,” John continued softly. “And stop trying to change the subject. That still doesn’t excuse your boorish and utterly offensive behavior. All you had to do was quietly point out the breaches of procedure to Lestrade and let him deal with it. It is his job and his crime scene, after all,” John fumed.

Sherlock waved his hand dismissively as they entered the flat and John laid Rosie in her cot in the corner.

“Imposing on Mrs. Hudson or anyone else wouldn’t be a problem if we hired a nanny for Rosie. Maybe a good female influence for her,” Sherlock murmured speculatively, adroitly using John’s own words against him, as he completely hijacked the conversation away from his own earlier behavior.

John rubbed the bridge of his nose and sighed. “I told you, Sherlock, I can’t afford a nanny. Without Mary’s income, I can’t afford a lot of things I’d like for Rosie.”

“John, I offered you a cheque…”

“I know, Sherlock, but I’m not going to take your money. I will provide for my own daughter.”

“John, I took that ridiculous robbery case just for the fee, for Rosie. Nothing had even been stolen. The woman’s elderly mother simply suffers from dementia and had misplaced her jewelry, in the walk-in freezer of all places. It wasn’t even a 2, no challenge at all.”

A lump formed in John’s throat. He wanted to maintain his earlier frustration with Sherlock, but the man could be so inadvertently thoughtful sometimes.

“Sherlock, I appreciate what you’re trying to do, but…”

“When you moved back in here, you said that we would raise Rosie together. Did you mean that or not?” Sherlock interrupted his voice clipped and tight.

“I…I didn’t intend financial…” began John.

“If we were lovers, partners, would you take it then?”

“Sherlock! No, no I wouldn’t.”

“You’re lying, John. You just said that Mary’s income was used to provide for Rosie’s needs. Why not mine?” Sherlock demanded, words less a question than an ultimatum.

“I’m not taking it, and that’s the end of the discussion, Sherlock. Don’t you think I’ve taken enough from you as it is?” John inquired sadly before picking up Rosie and heading upstairs to bed, the echo of Mycroft’s scathing words whispering silent condemnation in his mind.

John stared at his computer screen. He was exhausted. He should be soundly sleeping as Rosie was in her Moses Basket. He looked at her sadly and then back to the flashing cursor next to his meager bank balance. He couldn’t keep taking advantage of his friends as he had been. Rosie was not quite a year old yet, but she would need her own room and a larger bed very soon.

As it was, she was already a tight fit in the Moses Basket even as petite as she was for her age. She was definitely going to be on the shorter side, like both John and Mary, barring a weird and unexpected growth spurt.

John sighed gustily. He could try asking for more hours at the clinic, but that meant more babysitting services would be needed, and he would need to cut back on helping Sherlock with cases. There was no denying it. He was going to have to move out soon, find a small two bedroom flat that wasn’t so centrally located and wasn’t, therefore, so expensive. He would tell Sherlock tomorrow.

* * * * * * * * *

“Absolutely not,” Sherlock stated petulantly. “I unequivocally refuse to leave Baker Street.”

“Sherlock, I’m not trying to disrupt your life. You can just get another flat mate, yeah? I just can’t afford to live here much longer on what I earn doing locum work at the clinic. Originally, Mary and I thought it would be better if I went back to locum work; it would give me more time with Rosie. With two incomes, both of us working only part time made sense. And before Rosie, it was enough when it was just you and I living here at Baker Street, but now….” John trailed off.

Sherlock looked stricken. “You’re going to leave me,” he accused, voice high and a bit childish.

“I don’t want to, Sherlock,” John said softly as he reached out to grasp Sherlock’s hand. It was warm and firm, and it brought him an immeasurable amount of comfort when Sherlock squeezed back. “I have to. And, I know that this is your home, and I’d never ask you to leave,” John said as he pressed his lips together to keep the quaver out of his voice.

“Then take the cheque, John. It’s only money. I don’t need it, and I can always get more if Rosie needs anything,” Sherlock pleaded.

John sighed. He seemed to be doing that a lot lately. “I know you probably don’t understand this; it’s not logical or reasonable, but I have my pride, Sherlock, and I can’t just take a handout from you or anyone else.” John paused as he considered Sherlock’s nearly beseeching expression. “I’ll make you a deal. If I can get enough hours at the clinic to pay at least half of the expenses here at Baker Street, Rosie and I’ll stay. That includes the nanny too,” John stated, almost certain that Sarah would never give him the extra hours and that he would be moving out soon. He’d start looking at flats next week.

Sherlock nodded sharply, released John’s hand, and stood up abruptly.

“Sherlock?” John questioned. “Where are you going?”

“To put Mycroft off his treadmill,” Sherlock muttered as he swung the Belstaff around his shoulders and dashed out the door.

* * * * * * * * *

“Fancy meeting you here,” Mycroft Holmes said jovially two hours later, well after Sherlock had returned to Baker Street. John started, startled. He hadn’t even heard the other man sit down on the park bench next to him, a testament to how little sleep he had gotten the night before, he supposed. He gave Rosie a quick glance, but she was content to watch the spray of the fountain and the swish of colorful fabric as the other park goers enjoyed the unusually warm fall weather.

“What can I do for you, Mycroft?” John said congenially.

“How are things with Sherlock?” Mycroft inquired, subtly shifting the topic of conversation.

John studied the fountain as he gathered his thoughts. “We talked. I told him I didn’t think I could do a physical relationship with him. We sort of tabled it there. I think he’s trying to give me time and space to change my mind. And, as this is a private matter, that’s all I’ll say on the subject.”

Mycroft nodded sagely.

“Why are you really here, Mycroft?” John asked tiredly. He’d had little sleep, he and Rosie were about to become homeless—because well, home was wherever Sherlock was regardless of where they found another flat, and he was emotionally wrung out; the idea of a sexual relationship with Sherlock was still spinning around in the back of his mind like a tiny hamster on a wheel. He was almost literally at the end of his rope.

“Sherlock has called in a favor,” Mycroft said evenly.

“What kind of favor?” John asked, suspicion lacing every word.

“I’m here to offer you a job, Dr. Watson.” John’s eyes flashed fire and Mycroft hastened to add, “This is not charity, doctor. Before your pride runs away with you, I would advise you to listen.”

John sat back and crossed his arms. He knew he looked surly, but he couldn’t really help that right now. He nodded at Mycroft to continue.

“There is a specialized clinic five levels down in the heart of the government center. There is another clinic on the second floor; that’s the main clinic, and it services the office employees and their spouses and children: vaccinations, colds, the usual sort of thing. The underground clinic is another matter entirely. On occasion, MI5 and MI6 agents are injured and require treatment; sometimes that includes the services of a very good surgeon. And, on very rare occasions, we need to transport a surgeon directly to the agent. That can mean emergency surgery out in the middle of a field or an abandoned warehouse. Naturally, the type of treatment we are discussing means that the individual cannot seek treatment in a public facility or leave anything other than a classified paper trail,” Mycroft paused, making sure he had John’s undivided attention.

“You, Dr. Watson, are a very good surgeon. Although you were invalided out of the military for tremors in your hand associated with the shoulder wound, we both know that was purely psycho-somatic. The first time I met you, your hands were rock steady under pressure. You are still rock steady under intense pressure that would cause most prima donna surgeons to sob and wet themselves. One of my surgeons has decided he is getting too old to carry out his required duties. As such, he is moving to an opening in the upstairs clinic to wipe noses and administer vaccinations until he retires in a year or two. That leaves me with an opening to fill. The position pays well, much more than you currently earn, and it would also give you access to the government run twenty-four hour crèche facilities for Rosie. The child care personnel are all highly trained professionals with degrees in early childhood development and are thoroughly vetted by Anthea, if that is of concern to you. Standard vacation and leave policies apply.”

John stared slack jawed. The offer was, to put it mildly, simply incredible.

“What’s Sherlock holding over your head?” John demanded.

“Absolutely nothing of consequence. Quite frankly I would have made this offer to you years ago if I thought you would have accepted it. I let Sherlock think he was calling in a favor; it makes him feel just a little indebted when I need him to work on something for me. So, will you be giving the clinic your two weeks’ notice and accepting my offer?”

“Maybe. Would I still be able to help Sherlock with some of his cases?”

“Yes, your schedule would be somewhat flexible, as much as I can make it, enabling you to continue working with Sherlock most of the time. In an emergency, a car or helicopter can pick you up just as easily from a crime scene as from the government center. Dr. Watson, you keep Sherlock from completely going off the rails. Don’t think I don’t know that or that I do not appreciate it. I will do all I can to ensure that continues.”

“What about my security clearance?”

“What about it?” Mycroft hedged.

“Would this position increase it enough so that I can accompany Sherlock on the high profile government cases?”

“Perhaps. It will increase the security clearance you currently enjoy, but I cannot promise that it will always get you access to everything.”

John snorted. “Come on, Mycroft. You are the British Government.”

Mycroft smiled that smile, the one reminiscent of a shark sensing blood in the water. “And occasionally, for diplomacy’s sake, the British Government must bow to the wishes of, oh say … the Romanian Government.”

John nodded and briefly considered the man seated next to him. “Alright, you’ve got yourself a deal, but …” John paused significantly as he put his own caveat on the table. “Since you say you would have offered me this position anyway, Sherlock gets his favor back.”

Mycroft laughed heartily. “Dr. Watson, you’ve seen to what lengths I go to look out for Sherlock; do you truly believe I would turn him away in a time of need because he was out of favors? The favors between Sherlock and myself are a game we play and nothing more, but I will reinstate Sherlock’s favor,” Mycroft said with another chuckle. “You drive a hard bargain, doctor.”

John nodded. A weight slipped off his shoulders as he watched Mycroft walking down the meandering path through the park, brolly tapping out a brisk staccato rhythm. It occurred to him that regardless of how the books were balanced between Mycroft and Sherlock, he now owed Sherlock another debt he probably couldn’t repay.

_Excerpt from the private Blog of John Watson_

_Bloody Hell! Dr. Charles Wallace is some sort of incarnation from hell, a martinet drill sergeant type with a psychology degree—the old school kind that tears a soldier down and rebuilds him from the bone marrow up._

_This is unlike any therapy I’ve ever submitted to before. There’s no staring at the wall or not answering a question with this guy. Now I know why Mycroft referred to Ella as a mollycoddling hand-holder. I feel like I’ve been put through the wringer, like a bloody dishrag whose every fiber is fraying. I don’t know if I’m ready for this._

_I started talking about Mary today; I guess I was desperate to stay off the topic of Sherlock. And, let’s be honest, I think I am still grieving her death, at least a bit. The man extracted details from me like nothing I’ve ever seen before. He should be a barrister for the crown. Maybe he was at some point. I feel like I’ve been interrogated._

_And, he gave me homework. How am I supposed to answer this? I don’t know. I don’t know myself at all, it seems. Why did I hit Sherlock and not Mary? Knowing how it utterly destroyed me when Sherlock “died”… well, faked his own death and abandoned me, she did practically the same thing, abandoned me, for almost the same reasons—to protect me--allegedly. She knew how I viewed that as a betrayal, how much it devastated me, and she did it anyway._

_Sherlock_ _had no idea how deeply I’d be affected by his leaving. Mary did. After all, she’s the one who put me back together when I thought Sherlock was gone. She abandoned me. Coupled with her lies—God, so many lies, and the fact that she shot and nearly killed my best friend in the world... If I were going to hit anyone, it should have been her. And yet, when I found her, I held her, told her that people in relationships talk about these things, they trust each other. I hit Sherlock. Repeatedly. And, it wasn’t because I was in shock, that I thought Sherlock was some figment of my imagination._

_Sure, I wanted to punish him for putting me through hell. If I’m honest with myself, I wanted to punish Mary too. She put me through just as much hell as Sherlock did with a lot less reason. Sherlock “jumped” to his supposed death because Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, and I were in imminent danger of having a bullet put through our heads. Mary was aware of some vague threat but had the resources of The British Government aka Mycroft and the brilliance of Sherlock Holmes to help her if she’d only asked. I can’t help wondering sometimes how it all would have turned out if Mary had just been completely honest with all of us from the beginning and just fucking asked for help._

_Dr. Wallace asked me then if I hadn’t struck Mary because I couldn’t hit a woman. I know he knows that isn’t true. I was in a war zone for fuck’s sake. He_ _knows every soldier in a combat position has to be able and willing to hit, maim or kill anyone: women, children, it doesn’t matter. After all, it’s not like the terrorists care whether they’ve armed a woman or a child with a grenade, a semtex jacket or an uzi. They’ll use anyone. It’s harsh, but it’s a fact of life._

_I have no other recourse at this point but to consider Mycroft’s theory. It’s the only one left that makes any sense. Did I hit Sherlock because it’s been drilled into my head since childhood that you don’t ever put your arms around a man? You don’t ever kiss him? And you don’t ever, ever love him? Was hitting Sherlock the only way I could relieve those nearly overwhelming feelings that were threatening to explode into something for which my parents would have condemned me—disowned me?_

_Sherlock is fond of saying that once you eliminate the impossible that whatever remains, regardless of how improbable it may be, must be the truth. I have eliminated every other option. Can I accept this as truth? Can I accept this as truth knowing that the inescapable conclusion of this truth is that I am in love with Sherlock? Bloody Mycroft!_

 

“I turned in my two weeks’ notice this morning,” John said softly as he came in and noticed Rosie asleep in the crook of Sherlock’s arm. His other hand was busy thumbing through crime scene photos as he perused them and the lab results. Autopsy findings were still pending. John reached out to take Rosie and settled her firmly against his chest, still deeply asleep.

“You’re later than you thought you’d be,” Sherlock said with a raised brow.

“Yeah, Sarah wants all of my paperwork caught up before I leave, and since it’s the onset of flu season, we’ve been slammed at the clinic anyway. Thanks for watching her.”

Sherlock waved a hand negligently. “She’s no trouble,” he said with a soft smile before returning to the photos.

“Sherlock,” John said in a soft but no nonsense voice as he laid Rosie in her cot in the corner. He waited for Sherlock to raise his eyes and actually pretend to listen to what John had to say. “I think I may have found the solution to our nanny problem.”

Sherlock closed the folder immediately and gave John his full attention. John shook his head, a sigh of frustrated indulgence gusting past his lips. He should have known. If John had run around the room screaming with his jumper on fire, he might have gotten enough of Sherlock’s attention for the other man to grunt at him. Say something was for Rosie, and Sherlock was all ears.

“My cousin, Nora, well… she’s just sold her house outside of Leeds and the bit of property around it—small farm. Her husband, Ian, passed on last year and her kids are all grown and left home years ago. She’s in her late 50’s now and doesn’t want to go back to teaching primary school. Well, I mentioned to her about needing a nanny for Rosie, and she expressed a fair amount of interest in the plan when we had lunch today. She’s looking for a situation in London—nice change of pace from the country where she can start over, make new friends, and everything around her won’t remind her of Ian.”

“It sounds ideal. What is, as they say, the catch?” Sherlock inquired shrewdly. “You’re hesitating.”

“As I said, she’s in good health but she’s not young anymore, and she isn’t keen on taking the Underground to and from work every day. She wants room and board in exchange for a lesser salary. After having lived outside of Leeds on a farm for the last thirty odd years, she wants to live in central London and enjoy everything the city has to offer. And, well, we only have the two bedrooms. I’m willing to give up my room and sleep on the fold-out in the lounge, but that still leaves us a bedroom short. Rosie will need her own room soon.”

“I may be able to help with that. You mentioned that before, about Rosie needing her own space, so I had Mrs. Hudson put me in touch with the owners of that new coffee shop just next door, Bean There Done That.” Sherlock curled his lip in a slight moue of distaste at the atrocious pun. “Anyway, their upstairs storeroom is across the hallway from your room. When it was a restaurant, it was used to store canned and dried foods, but a coffee shop has no need of it. If we cut a hole in the wall for a door, there is enough space for one very large or two rather small to moderate bedrooms. They can’t rent it out as a tiny flat; it’s not plumbed, and it would be exorbitantly expensive to run piping that’s up to modern city code, but if we were willing to do the labor, painting and such, they’re willing to rent it out for two hundred per month.”

John did some quick mental calculations before starting to shake his head.

“Yes, John,” Sherlock broke into John’s thoughts before he could verbally reject the plan. “We agreed that I would pay half. That cheque lying under the skull on the mantle will cover the next years’ rent and the renovations. It’s a good plan.”

John started to object again, but before he could his conscience put in an appearance of its own as it metaphorically stuck its tongue out and called him a hypocrite. Hadn’t he just typed up his blog/therapy notes? Hadn’t he just bemoaned the fact that Mary hadn’t been more honest and accepted help that would have been freely and willingly offered? Was he brave enough to follow his own advice? Rosie had a wonderful life here, and if she couldn’t have her mother, wouldn’t having an Aunt Nora, a grandmother (Mrs. Hudson) and another father—let’s face it, that’s really what Sherlock was to her, be fair compensation?

And, Sherlock had been right. He really didn’t need the money. It would be different if it had meant food out of Sherlock’s mouth or something, but the man had very few expenses. He had no debt, barely bought food, and never bought clothes. All of his bespoke suits, trousers and shirts were gifts from either his parents or Mycroft who had no idea what else to get him for Christmases and birthdays. John suspected that was why his shirts were so snug; they were going off of measurements that were likely ten years old. Sherlock spent money on four things: rent, taxis, and his homeless network. And now Rosie.

For the first time in his life, John Watson swallowed his damnable pride. “Thank you, Sherlock. If you truly don’t mind, we accept. Thank you. You’ll never know what this means to me….to us.”

Sherlock inclined his head and began spreading out crime scene photos again. “What do you make of this Watson?” Sherlock queried as he passed over a particularly grisly photo.

John sighed and grinned. Life was back to normal.

Nora moved into John’s room the following weekend with two small trunks containing her clothing and toiletries, a French bulldog named Peppy, who was anything but, and an assortment of dog paraphernalia.

At first John thought the dog might be a problem, but he discovered it really just wanted to spend most of its time snoozing on the couch or in its bed by the fire. It firmly cemented itself in their lives when it replaced the skull as Sherlock’s erstwhile John replacement. Sherlock would deposit it in John’s chair and run deductions by it. Peppy yawned occasionally. Sherlock pronounced it an excellent stand-in for John. John was never sure if he should be amused or offended by that.

Sherlock and Nora were another matter entirely. Nora liked things clean and orderly. Sherlock favored some form of controlled chaos John could never quite fathom. They mostly avoided one another when at all possible. The fact that Nora adored Rosie, as did Sherlock, engendered minimal cooperation between the two, but for the sake of everyone’s sanity, they kept their distance from one another.

John hired a local handyman who commenced cutting out a door frame and plastering and painting the storeroom the following Monday. Since they had opted for turning the storeroom into two smaller bedrooms, they were looking at around a month for completion as several walls would have to be erected and closets for both bedrooms constructed from scratch. Sherlock, of course, wanted cedar closets. John shrugged and figured that since Sherlock was paying for it, he could have any damn thing he wanted.

He did, however, draw the line at painting the entire periodic table on the wall of what would become Rosie’s nursery.

“She’s not ready for that, Sherlock.” John argued.

Of course, Sherlock pitched a hissy when John proposed stenciling little smiling flowers and grinning dinosaurs on the wall.

“Utter rubbish!” he growled in response.

They finally compromised. When the room was finished they would paint it a neutral beige and use cling form alphabet letters and numbers shaped like blocks to decorate the room; they could easily be changed out as Rosie grew without the need to re-paint the room.

Four days passed in the construction zone now known as 221B Baker Street, and everyone noticed that John was becoming increasingly cranky.

Mrs. Hudson had huffed, “a might stroppy, aren’t we?” in response to John’s latest tantrum and stormed out. Sherlock was quite missing her blueberry scones.

“Take my bed, John,” Sherlock said quietly.

The cot had been temporarily moved upstairs into Nora’s room, the Moses Basket finally being deemed too small, and both child and nanny had already turned in for the night.

“Wha..?” John murmured around a bite of shepherd’s pie.

One unsuspected benefit of having Nora around was that she enjoyed cooking. John was grateful for the home cooked meals as take away was both unhealthy and expensive.

“You’re exhausted, Watson. You’ve worked at the clinic until at least ten o’clock every night this week; you’re barely sleeping at all on that uncomfortable pull out sofa in the corner; and additionally now you’ve a sore back to contend with as well. Take my bed, at least for tonight.”

“Sherlock, you’ve been working this case like a madman, especially since two more bodies turned up. You’re about to drop. I can’t take your bed.”

“Fine then, we’ll share it,” Sherlock said with finality. “Go get changed,” he added in a tone that brooked no argument.

John flushed a deep red. “I don’t think …” he trailed off helplessly.

“For God’s sake, Watson. I’m not a serial rapist; your virtue is quite safe. I swear I won’t lay so much as a fingertip on you.”

“Sorry,” John muttered. “You’re right. I’m being an arse. I’ll go brush my teeth and get changed.”

Clean and garbed for bed, John stepped into Sherlock’s room hesitantly to find that Sherlock had taken two spare pillows and made a divider down the center of the bed.

“You didn’t need to do that, you know,” John said gesturing toward the center of the bed.

Sherlock turned from where he had just plugged his phone in to charge and looked at the bed. He shrugged nonchalantly. “It was no effort, and if it makes you feel better, why not?”

“So, uhmmm, which side do you want?”

“This side’s fine,” Sherlock said as he plugged his laptop in next to his phone. “Will the light bother you?” he asked as he gestured to the computer.

“No, my old room faced the alley on one side. I got used to wearing a sleep mask to block out the street light,” John said as he held up the mask. “I’ll be fine.”

It was a testament to Sherlock’s level of concern that he’d even bothered to ask if something he was doing was annoying, John realized tiredly and silently vowed to apologize to Mrs. Hudson and endeavor to be less stroppy for the duration of the construction.

Sherlock nodded and then flopped gracefully into the bed, two pillows piled up behind his back as he reached for his laptop. He turned the volume completely off and then pulled up the autopsy reports on the first two victims. John climbed into bed more sedately, pulled his sleep mask into position and was asleep less than a minute after his head hit the pillow. His last conscious thought was that Sherlock had a damned comfortable bed.

John awoke Friday morning and decided to indulge in a bit of a lie in. His paperwork was caught up. This was his last day at the clinic, and he wasn’t scheduled to see a patient until 1pm. He rolled over and pulled up the corner of the sleep mask. As he expected, Sherlock was already gone. At some point, Sherlock had used the two pillows in the center to help prop himself up, as there was a small mountain of pillows scattered across the top side of Sherlock’s half of the bed.

Unthinking, John reached out and snagged one, cuddling it to his chest and burying his face into it as he started to drift off back to sleep. It smelled like Sherlock, a mixture of his soap, shampoo, expensive aftershave, a touch of rubbing alcohol and a few other chemicals, and something quintessentially Sherlock. It smelled like home, like safety and security, like comfort. John buried his nose against it and inhaled deeply, letting his thoughts wander. From that first morning in the kitchen when he very nearly licked Sherlock’s nipple, he had become aware of Sherlock in an almost preternatural way.

Glimpses of skin at his throat and along his chest teased him now, brushes of his hand or his hair as he reached around John for a mug in the kitchen had all of John’s senses on high alert. He wanted…something, but he wasn’t yet sure quite what that something was. He wanted to touch, to explore, but he wasn’t sure how far he was willing to take it. If there was one thing John despised, it was a tease, and he had no wish to make promises to Sherlock and/or his body that he wasn’t 100% prepared to back up. And so he waited, looks growing just a little bolder as the days passed.

He knew Sherlock was aware of it; he could read John like an open book on any given day and had proved that the first time they had ever met. Now, with familiarity, John suspected Sherlock knew him better than he knew himself. After the first few times of being caught looking, Sherlock just smirked whenever he caught John ogling him. He’d often raise a curious eyebrow and look expectantly at John as if to ask: Well, are you ready yet? John would flush and look away. Christ, he felt like a fifteen year-old virgin again. John groaned and rolled over. He needed a good wank but wasn’t about to do that in Sherlock’s bed. Besides, he desperately needed to pee, and he couldn’t do that with a hard-on. Sighing loudly, he got up and padded across the hall to the loo.

His last day at the clinic was anti-climactic. He lanced two boils, saw a smattering of colds, made a referral to a neurologist regarding Mrs. Johansson’s migraines, and saw four children in need of vaccinations. He was quite looking forward to getting back into trauma surgery; he missed the pressure, the excitement, the thrill of saving a life. The staff had a little party for him late in the afternoon. They had even ordered a cake. Despite ending their relationship on good terms, he couldn’t help feeling that Sarah was more relieved than anything else to see him go.

That night at the Red Lion, there was much toasting of John’s new position set to start on Monday. The clinic on the second floor of the government center was common knowledge, and so he let them believe he would be working in that clinic. He had received instructions from Anthea regarding the classified nature of the trauma clinic; he wasn’t certain at what level it was classified, but he knew he wasn’t supposed to discuss it.

Sherlock had begged off. Well, that was putting it politely. Sherlock, still wearing his pajamas, had grunted at him, annoyed, and motioned John to the door. There had been another murder. Despite the fact that the victim’s face hadn’t been removed, Sherlock was certain it was connected to the other murders.

“Look at the knots, John,” he said excitedly, pointing to close ups of the bindings around the victim’s hands and feet. “They’re double constrictor knots with a slipped bight. That’s incredibly rare. They’re difficult to tie but very strong. They continue to tighten; the more the victim struggles, the tighter they become. And they’re all tied approximately eight degrees widdershins of true center. It’s our killer’s calling card.”

John looked. He was uncertain what he was looking at; it looked like an ordinary knot to him. There was nothing unusual about the rope either, standard grade stuff available at any hardware store. The tissue surrounding the knots was heavily purpled with bruising and severely inflamed. There were numerous cuts to the fingers and hands that looked clean, less raw than the torn and rubbed wrists and ankles. John looked up, confused and somewhat skeptical.

“Think about it Watson. If you needed to subdue someone, bind someone with the sole intent of preventing escape, what would you use?”

John thought back to their previous cases. “Heavy gauge zip ties, I suppose,” John said at last. “Fast, efficient, strong, cheap, and easy to conceal; you can get them pretty much anywhere, and they don’t look all that suspicious if someone sees them in your boot with the first aid kit and the like.”

“Excellent. So, why would our killer tie this knot, which takes more time, more effort, and means he has to carry around a significant amount of rope?”

“He wants them to struggle,” John said, excitement creeping into his voice. “He wants them to think they have a chance of loosening the ropes, of getting free.”

“More,” demanded Sherlock.

John shrugged, giving his head a soft shake not seeing whatever Sherlock was saying.

“He’s a true sadist, John. He wants them to struggle because it means that every time they do, the ropes tighten a bit more, bite just that little bit deeper. And they will struggle. As always, you see but you do not observe. Surely you noted the shallow cuts and deeper puncture wounds to the fingers and hands? Those did not occur during the victims’ attempts to escape. No, John; the victims were tortured. It may not look like much at first, but think about the sheer number of nerves in the human hand, in the fingers—how sensitive they are. From a medical perspective, why don’t many diabetics consistently check their blood sugars? Because it leaves their fingers incredibly sore. This victim has endured far less than the previous victims because of an underlying heart condition that precipitated a massive coronary before the killer really had a chance to enjoy himself,” Sherlock finished with a flourished shake of the photos in his hands.

John chewed his lips thoughtfully. “Yeah, but Sherlock, three of the victims had their faces cut off. He may have been interrupted before he could do it to the second victim, but he had plenty of time to finish the job on this one,” John pointed to the pictures of the fifth victim. “Serial killers just don’t change their MOs. Even I know that.”

Sherlock flopped back onto the couch, dramatically throwing his hands up to rub at his eyes and then run his hands roughly through his curls until they were standing out like he had stuck a hair pin into an electric socket. “I know. I’m missing something. There’s always one thing,” he muttered.

“There’s always the chance of a copycat killer, too,” John interjected.

“No,” Sherlock said decisively. “It’s the same man. A copycat would be inexperienced, sloppier than his master. There would be hesitation marks; the ropes would have been tied with slightly less or more tension, not quite that eight degree twist to the knot. Plus the fact that these photos haven’t been released to the public.”

“So, the only ones who’ve seen them are the NSY people and us?” John clarified.

Sherlock nodded, lost in thought.

“Come down to the pub. Have a drink. Maybe chat with Lestrade or Donovan. There may be something they noticed but thought was too insignificant to put in their reports.”

“Highly unlikely. I perused those crime scenes myself. One of those idiots noticing something I missed…,” Sherlock scoffed disdainfully.

“Suit yourself,” John grunted as he pulled on his coat. “I’m off. For what it’s worth, I wish I were a little more clever and that I could be of more help to you, like Mary—god, I still miss her,” he said, finishing the last on a soft whisper. “Nite, Sherlock,” John said, closing the door behind him.

Sherlock was just sinking into his mind palace when he bolted suddenly upright. “Watson, you’re a genius,” he shouted to an empty room.

Peppy eyed him drowsily from his dog bed by the fire and dropped off back to sleep almost instantly, the night punctuated by his soft snores.

“Why didn’t I see it before?” Sherlock demanded grabbing his phone. “Lestrade, I need access to the NSY criminal database. [Pause] What? Yes, all of it. I think I may have solved the serial killer case, but I need more data. [Pause] Well, then get me clearance!” Sherlock shouted petulantly before hanging up. The game was on.

When John stumbled in at half two, Sherlock was scrolling madly through the NSY database.

“What are you doing?” John asked drowsily.

“2009,” Sherlock answered not bothering to lift his eyes from the computer.

“Huh?” John asked. When Sherlock failed to respond, John tried again. “In English, Sherlock, for those of us who aren’t high functioning genius sociopaths.”

“I am reviewing all of the murders the NSY has on file for the year 2009,” Sherlock replied tersely.

“Okay,” John said indulgently as if that statement was an answer to anything. “Why is 2009 so important?”

“It isn’t,” Sherlock stated in a clipped, annoyed tone.

“Then why are you looking at the records so thoroughly?”

Sherlock sighed and set the laptop on the coffee table. “I am going back through Scotland Yard’s full database, year by year. I am convinced our killer did not just begin killing. I believe he has been at it for quite some time, changing a few significant details each time he killed to keep anyone from establishing that there was a pattern. I am looking for that pattern. So far, I’ve identified at least sixteen previous murders I believe we can attribute to our killer. They appear random and unrelated; there are both men and women included -- of varying ages, backgrounds, and ethnic groups. Except for the knots and the pattern of cuts, nothing else links them. I am, however, convinced that this was all the work of the same killer and that I have solved the case. I now need irrefutable data to back up my hypothesis,” Sherlock concluded as he again picked up his laptop.

“Can I help?” John asked. "I can make some tea and…,”

“Go to bed, John. Go to my bed. If you’re amenable we will continue the same sleeping arrangement as last night until the rooms upstairs are complete. You of all people know my sleeping habits, that I barely use that bed as it is. Most nights you’re likely to be the only one in it anyway,” Sherlock said distractedly as he began to jot down notes as he was reviewing 2009.

Sherlock’s phone chose that moment to ring.

“Yes, Craig,” Sherlock said with a note of excitement in his voice. “Did you run the dark web scan?”

John rubbed his face and wandered off to bed, barely getting his shoes off before he was fast asleep. True to his word, Sherlock never went to bed that night.

_Excerpt from the private Blog of John Watson_

_Had another session with Dr. Wallace this morning. Note to self: in future avoid Saturday sessions—the Dr. likes to schedule larger time blocs for weekend patients. Talked about my new job (after confirming with Anthea that Dr. Wallace has clearance). Another session where I’m left feeling emotionally wrung out, so this will probably be the most rambling piece of shite ever written. Oh well, it’s not like anyone else is ever going to read it._

_Reported the results of my homework to Dr. Wallace—that I think I’m in love with Sherlock. No, that’s not true. I know I’m in love with Sherlock. Now that I’ve had my interest in Sherlock so rudely pointed out to me, it really wasn’t that hard to identify the feelings for what they really are. I just don’t know what to do about it. The man is a brilliantly mad, moody, thoughtful, selfish, prima donna of an emotionally stunted fucktard genius, the biggest mass of contradictions ever to walk the face of the earth, and I_ _love him. Jesus Christ, if I had to realize I was bi and in love with a man did it have to be the most complicated man on the planet?_

_It’s like trying to get your footing on loose sand when someone is constantly tipping the axis of your world creating the unremitting sensation that you’re just on the verge of falling. It’s fucking scary as hell._

_And, I can’t say that I’m dealing with the bi thing all that well either. Some days I’m okay with it, don’t even think much about it. Some days I can have a good toss off in the shower and wonder what it would be like if it were Sherlock’s larger hands stroking me, those pale, long, elegant fingers wrapped around my shaft, stroking, squeezing. Sherlock is deceptively strong but he can_ _be so gentle; anyone who’s ever seen him with Rosie knows that. Sherlock is right handed. How would the calluses on the fingertips of his left hand, where he fingers his violin, feel against my nipples, caressing my balls…? Christ, I’m getting hard. I really, really have a thing for his hands._

_Then there are the other days, the days where the self-loathing bubbles up like thick, hot, black tar, and I can feel this huge maw of hate and anger and violence inside of me leaving me barely able to breathe. The voices of my parents shout at me in my mind, horrible words meant to wound, maim, destroy._

_What would people think of me if they knew?_

_I still feel like me, mostly, but on a conscious level this changes things. At a fundamental level, I am not who I believed myself to be. Knowing this, it scares me even more to think that there might be other things about myself that I don’t know. Do I have repressed memories of some event lurking deep in the dark recesses of my mind—demons under the road, perhaps, like Sherlock? What else is going to come bubbling up out of my psyche to bite me on the arse?_

_I guess I_ _am making progress. I was able to discuss with my therapist that I’m in love with Sherlock—that’s something I suppose. Dr. Wallace thinks I should tell him at the very least. He doesn’t think I’ll make any real progress until I acknowledge my feelings, take them out and lay them bare in the light of day. That means telling Sherlock. What would Sherlock say if I did that? Mycroft says he loves me, me and Rosie, but what if he doesn’t? He offered me sex; Sherlock never said anything about love. And there is the crux of the whole bi thing. If I tell Sherlock, he’ll want to act on it._

_The bloody bastard’s been subtly teasing me for weeks, slowly wetting his lips with the tip of a tiny pointed, pink tongue, resting his hand along the nape of my neck and oh so gently stroking while we’re watching crap telly…that sort of thing. I’m primed like a rocket, but I love it. I think if I told him to stop he would, but God help me, I don’t want him to. I’m sure he knows that too._

_I can’t go back, but I’m not willing to go forward, either. So, that leaves me here, stuck in this strange, erotic dance with Sherlock—knowing that, at some point, something’s gotta give. I’m just not sure if I can be physically intimate with Sherlock. Dr. Wallace seems to think it’s just like when you first lose your virginity—you go slow, grope your way blindly forward, stopping when you need to and do whatever feels good for you and your partner. Part of me knows he’s right. Part of me is scared shitless. What if I disappoint Sherlock? He’s so much more experienced than I am, and who would have ever thought Three Continents Watson would say that, eh? The bigger part of me is terrified that I might lose it again, emotionally I mean. What if those feelings of anger and violence erupt again if I try to touch him? What if I hurt Sherlock? I never want to hurt Sherlock again._

_Dr. Wallace seems really gung ho to work on my anger issues. Like my other emotions, he doesn’t think anything is going to get better until I pull them out, lay them in the sunlight and expose them to unobstructed scrutiny. He thinks it’s okay to be angry, to even hate, so long as you are directing those emotions at the right target. I agree with him. I know a lot of people argue for the whole let it go, let all of the negativity wash away BS. I think I’m too primal, too unevolved for that. You feel what you feel._

_So that’s my homework this time. I’ve been turning it over and over in my head all day. When I actually really look hard at it, I’m amazed at how simple it really is. My parents brainwashed me. All of the rage I had been feeling toward them for all of these years for the physical and emotional abuse they subjected me to—years of it, I turned it inward. I always knew on some level that their doctrine of hatred and intolerance was wrong, but I turned it all inward, on myself, hating part of who I was, repressing that part, pushing it so far down into the blackness of my rage that I didn’t even know it was there anymore._

_And yet, there was, at least, a decent, compassionate part of myself that survived in an environment of loathing and violence. I turned all of the negativity on myself but never felt the need to direct it at others. That’s something, I suppose. It gives me hope that if I can accept other people for who and what they are that eventually I can do the same for myself._

_People said I was in shock when my parents died ten years ago. Now I know better. I didn’t cry—couldn’t cry, because I simply didn’t care. The world is a better place without them._

_I know it’s probably stupid, but I hate Harry a little too. She got out. She got out and left me behind. My first taste of abandonment—no wonder Sherlock’s “suicide” and Mary’s leaving tore me apart. In retrospect, I know the life she was living was no picnic, but it was probably better than my life as Da's punching bag. Did she ever spare a thought for the little brother she left behind? Did she ever think once about calling the NSPCC and reporting the hell hole I was living in? I couldn’t do it—never even considered it…hell, I don’t think I knew such things existed. And my father would likely have beaten me to death if I had called child protection. But Harry must have known, must have talked to counselors and social workers while she was living on the streets and in shelters. Why didn’t she help me? She just...left me there.  Is that why she can’t, to this day, bear to look me in the eye?_

_God, I am so fucked up._

 

A few days later, John awakened bleary and disoriented. He pushed the corner of his sleep mask up and glanced at the clock on the nightstand. The glowing numbers revealed that it was just shy of half past three. John heard a slight rustle near the closet and was just able to make out the dim figure of Sherlock dressing silently in the corner. The dark figure bent over, picked up his shoes, and exited quietly, closing the door with a soft snick behind him.

How utterly odd, John thought as he swung his legs over the side of the bed, sat up, and turned on the bedside lamp. It was true that Sherlock didn’t sleep much, and it was perfectly within the realm of possibility that he was getting up for the day. But, the fact remained that Sherlock normally threw on an old dressing gown or slouched around in his pajamas until he had to get dressed. Hell, this was the man who wore a sheet to Buckingham Palace.

Curiosity piqued, John stood up and quietly padded into the lounge where he found Sherlock had just finished lacing up his Oxfords.

“Sherlock, where are you going?” John asked softly, trying to avoid waking Nora and Rosie.

“Out,” Sherlock replied succinctly.

“Out where?” John inquired. “Is it the case?”

“No. The Diogenes Club,” Sherlock said, answering the questions in reverse order as he moved toward the coat rack.

“You’re meeting with Mycroft at half three in the morning?” John asked, confused. What the hell was going on?

“No,” Sherlock replied evasively.

John had had it. Exasperated, he pointed at the couch. “Sit, Sherlock. Sit down and tell me what you’re trying so bloody hard not to tell me.”

Sherlock stubbornly shook his head. “Not here.”

He motioned to John to follow him back into the bedroom. As soon as both men were inside, he shut and locked the door behind him and then turned on the fan in the corner, the one John used for white noise when Sherlock was typing so fast his laptop emitted a steady clacking noise.

“John, do you remember a few weeks ago when you were so angry with Mycroft you threatened to drug him the next time he visited and remove one of his kidneys to sell on the black market?”

John nodded. He still hadn’t forgiven Mycroft for the way he had poked around in John’s head that day at the zoo. But in all fairness, he had asked for it, so the threat was an idle one at best, an expression of irritation at his own lack of self-awareness at worst.

“You said there were things you’d rather not know. This is one of those things. I’m giving you that chance now—to go back to bed and forget tonight. Nothing will change between us … nothing at all.”

John thought about it, considered it for perhaps a full five seconds. It would be so easy. But John Watson was no ostrich, and he wasn’t about to stick his head in the sand. Besides, he had a daughter to protect. He had deliberately overlooked so many of Mary’s deceptions, little things that just didn’t add up. He wouldn’t make that mistake again. John turned his pillow upright and sat on the bed, his back against the headboard. He gestured for Sherlock to sit as well, which he did, folding himself stiffly at the foot of the bed, one leg bent but with his shoe hanging over the edge off of the quilt.

“Tell me, Sherlock,” he said gently.

There was a long pause as Sherlock regarded him intently.

“Please, god, tell me you weren’t going to get high,” John pleaded.

“I wasn’t going to get high. I promised you when you and Rosie moved in that I wouldn’t do that anymore. I have kept my promise. I cannot guarantee that I won’t relapse, no addict can, but I will do all in my power to keep my word to you.” Sherlock’s affect was nearly flat. His words cool, detached. This, whatever it was, was clearly a subject that he did not want to discuss.

“But, my addiction is probably the best place to begin this conversation. Do you know why I started using, Watson? What prompted me to turn to illegal drugs, to become an addict?”

John took a deep, steadying breath. “Peer pressure?” he guessed. “You wanted friends, wanted to fit in at some point in your life before you decided that normal was boring?”

Sherlock gave a slight smile. “Good guess but no. Do you recall once calling me a machine?”

“Oh God, Sherlock, please don’t. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean…”

Sherlock held up his hand and waved it impatiently. “No, no,” he interrupted. “It’s as apt of a description as any. My brain is a giant hard drive. But, unlike a real computer that performs only one function at a time, my mind is like a whirlwind, like twenty different automobiles in a huge circle chained to some part of my body in the middle of it all. They are all pulling me in different directions at the same time, and sometimes I’m terrified that they’ll eventually pull me apart, that I’ll fragment—go utterly mad. That’s why I need the puzzles, The Work. The more of my mind I can focus on one, single, complex task, the more the cars are all pulling in one direction, the more stable and sane I feel.”

Sherlock paused to swallow and consider his next words. “However, like any computer, at some point, it begins to glitch. It doesn’t run as fast. It starts to freeze up, get caught in loops, over heat. Tell me, Watson, what do you do when your laptop starts up with that sort of behavior?”

John shrugged. “I hold down the power button, force it to shut down, let it cool down for a while and reboot. That usually solves the problem.”

“Exactly,” Sherlock concurred. “That’s what the drugs do for me. For a few hours, a few days, my mind is utterly quiet; it shuts down, cools off, and is ready to re-boot when the on switch is flipped. Do you understand?”

“Yeah, yeah I think so…but, when you were on the plane, you weren’t…”

“Ahhh, yes,” Sherlock interrupted. “An aberration. That was different. Quite frankly, I hate to fly, and I needed to do something to take me out of my reality. It was an experiment. I took a cocktail of drugs I specifically designed to create a state of lucid dreaming. I had just had a re-boot recently, to get Magnussen’s attention if you’ll recall. I just needed a temporary distraction for the duration of the flight itself.”

“Alright, I’m following so far. But, if you weren’t going to get high, and I’m not saying I don’t believe you, where were you going?”

“The Diogenes Club. Don’t be tiresome, John. I told you that already.”

“Why?” John asked, trying to keep the irritation out of his voice.

“To seek out the only other thing that I can use as a substitute for the drugs.”

“What’s that?” John asked curiously as visions of a gambling den floated in his mind. Bet Sherlock was amazing at poker or baccarat…

“Sex,” Sherlock announced.

“Excuse me???” John asked on a near shriek.

“Sex,” Sherlock repeated calmly. “The basement of the Diogenes Club houses a brothel, one that caters to pretty much any sexual fetish or proclivity you can imagine.”

“Let me see if I have this right. You were going to a brothel to hire a prostitute in order to re-set your brain?”

“Two actually. More efficient that way.”

“Two what?” John asked, his mind reeling.

“Two prostitutes,” Sherlock clarified in a bored tone. “More efficient that way. Weren’t you listening? Do try to keep up, Watson.”

John reached a hand up to see if his jaw was hanging open and whether he needed to manually re-close it. “I…I…,” he sputtered, at a complete loss for words. “Explain, please,” John choked out finally.

“The neurochemicals released during an orgasm are very similar to what happens when the brain is exposed to heroin. During an orgasm, the lateral orbitofrontal cortex — the brain region behind the left eye — shuts down during the orgasm and immediately thereafter. This region is considered to be the voice of reason, logic and controls behavior. I can cite the study for you in the **Journal of Neuroscience** , if you like. Anyway, it’s a total reset. It doesn’t last as long as the heroin, but it is intense, and it does what I need for it to do. Generally, I arrange to spend several hours at the brothel and reset three or four times.”

Sherlock then pulled a chain of six condoms out of the breast pocket of his suit coat, the packaging crinkling slightly as he shifted them.

“The orgasms are far more intense with a partner, as opposed to masturbation, but that will work in a pinch. The euphoria coupled with the subsequent crash and several hours of sleep is the best possible substitute for drugs that I’ve found.”

“And you discovered this when you were doing your research into human sexual behavior?”

“Yes,” Sherlock confirmed.

“So, why didn’t you stick with sex? I mean, God, Sherlock, why would someone as intelligent as you risk an overdose, addiction, disease….?” John broke off at a complete loss.

“It was a simple cost-benefit analysis. I was a university student with limited access to funds. For fifty pounds, I could stay high for two days, before my tolerance developed, of course. A two day reset would secure several months of optimal mental functioning. The same amount would only purchase an hour, two at the most, with a prostitute. If I elected to choose a partner from a club, there was still the expense of a room somewhere, the risk of being robbed or killed if I had chosen badly—it’s very difficult to make accurate observations and deductions over the pounding noise and flashing lights, and there were other complications—the ones who fancied a relationship or wanted to talk for half the night. A few orgasms will ensure a week or two, at most, of optimal neural functioning. I need sex more frequently than heroin, as the neurochemical release isn’t for the same sustained duration as the high from heroin, but it is just as effective if done on a fairly frequent basis. However, given the drawbacks—the escalating costs, the time and trouble to secure a willing partner,” Sherlock shrugged nonchalantly, “it just wasn’t worth it.”

Sherlock studied John closely. John opened and closed his mouth repeatedly, but nothing came out.

“I’ve disappointed you,” Sherlock said softly, sighing as he got up to leave. “Please try not to be angry, John.” Sherlock hesitated at the door wishing the right words to come to smooth this over.

John stared helplessly at his best friend, the man he loved. Sherlock’s brilliant mind was literally trying to rip itself apart. Only Sherlock.

“Wait,” he croaked as Sherlock’s hand settled on the door knob.

Oh God. Could he do this? His heart was about to pound out of his chest. He looked at the expanse of the bed around him and then back to Sherlock who was staring at him curiously. John squirmed, feeling like he was one of Sherlock’s specimen’s under a ‘borrowed’ St. Bart’s microscope.

“Come here,” he whispered on a soft murmur as he scooted toward the center of the bed, giving Sherlock a spot to sit next to him.

“John?” Sherlock asked, clearly confused.

John hesitated then patted the spot on the bed next to him. Sherlock sat, still staring at John as if he had grown a second head.

“I’m not angry, Sherlock,” John admitted softly. “I’m … I’m jealous,” he said at last. Sherlock’s face screwed up in adorable confusion.

“Why? It’s just sex, John.”

“I …oh God, I’m actually gonna admit this out loud. I want to be the only one who gets to touch you. The thought of you with some brothel prostitute makes me ….,” John trailed off not sure whether ‘insanely possessive’ was a good word choice or not.

He supposed it was inevitable. John knew the feelings were there, but the series of events as they stood was forcing him to act on them. If he didn’t, he knew he would regret forever letting Sherlock walk out that door. But Sherlock was catching on.

“Monogamy. You desire a monogamous sexual relationship,” Sherlock clarified.

"Uhmmm...," John murmured dazedly, and then realized exactly what 'the only one' implied.  John finally nodded a bit helplessly as it sunk in that Sherlock's interpretation of his statement was the only logical one.

Sherlock seemed to consider for a moment, studying John’s face intently. “Your terms are acceptable. Are you truly ready for this? I need ….”

“You need to come pretty much right now, probably a couple of times and then again in the morning,” John interrupted, taking a deep breath as he finished. “I was listening, you know,” he said with a soft, self-deprecating smile, more than a little bemused at this strange turn of events.

Sherlock nodded continuing to search John’s face for signs of hesitation or uncertainty.

“I don’t think I can have intercourse yet. I’ll need to work up to that, but I am familiar with the basic equipment,” John said as he gestured to his own groin area, which was seemingly beginning to take an interest in recent developments. That more than anything convinced Sherlock that John was serious. “I think I can manage a hand job, maybe a bit of frottage,” John said, a little uncertain. Would this be enough? “You need to understand, though. I still haven’t worked through all of my anger issues, Sherlock. Please, you have to promise me that you won’t let me hurt you.”

Sherlock nodded cautiously. When John neither moved nor spoke, Sherlock gave the other man the verbal reassurance he wanted. “I promise.”

“I want you,” John said softly.

“You’re sure?” Sherlock asked once more. At John’s nod, he stood and pulled off his coat dropping it carelessly in front of the door. John swallowed hard, opened his arms and nervously reached out for Sherlock.

_Excerpt from the private Blog of John Watson_

_It’s official. I’m definitely bi. I had sex with Sherlock. Even seeing it in print, I can’t believe it myself. I know a lot of people wouldn’t call it sex, since there was no penetration involved, but to me it was._

_Sherlock isn’t shy; he was naked and crawling up the bed in what felt like seconds. It was like he was prowling, a predator, and I was the prey. It was frightening and arousing and very, very sexy. I have always been more of the aggressor in sexual relationships, but I should have expected as much from Sherlock. In everyday life, the man is positively allergic to authority. He could be running NSY in five years if he joined the force, but he wouldn’t last a single day without pointing out the idiocy of one of his superiors. He is just as dominant in bed._

_Reading over that, it sounds kind of selfish, like Sherlock just took what he wanted. Nothing could be further from the truth. He crawled up my body, caressing and kissing and petting me like I was some treasure to be worshipped. I think he knew I needed to be seduced this first time, that I needed to not think and just let go. He never explicitly asked me to trust_ _him, I just do. Oh, who am I kidding? Of course he knew what I needed. I think I’ve already mentioned that the man can read me like a cheap Chinese take away menu._

_And isn’t that a huge revelation; well, I guess it is and it isn’t. I trust him. Oh, I don’t trust him to buy milk or remember to pay the light bill—never again, but I trust him with my body. I trust him with my child. I trust him with the important things. Oh God, the things he did to me. That mouth, …that lush cupid’s bow mouth of his…I’ve had fantasies of what it would look like wrapped around my dick, how it would feel. I could never have imagined._

_A part of me wishes Sherlock was a virgin, that we had been each others’ first time. Part of me is damned grateful that at least one of us knew what he was doing. I’m blushing as I write this. As much as I loved Sherlock’s mouth on me, I loved having my legs pushed open wide, my hips held down…being dominated and teased. And isn’t that a surprise? He didn’t let me come that way. He kept working his way up, kissing, licking… until we were nose to nose._

_Amazingly enough, I took the_ _initiative then, wrapping my arms around him and pulling him down to kiss him until we were both nearly breathless. I feel like preening a little; I actually managed to surprise him, and he was surprised. When I think about it, Sherlock’s experience seems to consist wholly of one night stands and prostitutes, and generally those are not people who favor a lot of kissing. Sherlock is a fair kisser, I will give him that, but I’m better. At least this is an area where I can teach Sherlock a few things. On the downside, Sherlock is a quick study. He’ll learn everything I have to teach him within a week, I’m sure._

 _I’m not sure if Sherlock had lube in his jacket and palmed it before he began stripping or exactly where he got it, but suddenly he was rutting against me, the slick slide of flesh to flesh. It was amazing to feel him against me, that whirlwind of energy, the controlled chaos that is Sherlock Holmes moaning and quivering against me, my legs spread wide and his weight pinning me down. It didn’t take long for his first orgasm; he must have needed it_ _badly. The sounds he made, the little noises of pleasure, susurrations of warm breath against my ear, hot and humid making me shiver….The only intelligible word a long, drawn out gasp of my name._

_I’ll never be able to type what it sounded like, but I’ll never forget that sound._

_He collapsed next to me, breathing hard and fast. Within minutes he was whispering to me. “I can make you come now, or I can make you come with me when I have my second orgasm. What do you want? I’ll be hard again in a minute.” It shouldn’t have been possible, but Sherlock is almost eight years younger than I am. When I look at him and the adjective ‘boyish’ comes to mind, it’s because he is. Still, his refractory period is amazing._

_I chose to come with him, and he turned us both to our sides gently with subtle pressure and teasing strokes. I am vaguely familiar with the concept of intercrural gay sex, but I had never given it much thought. Sherlock lubed the insides of my upper thighs and settled behind me. By hooking my left foot around my right ankle, I was able to tighten my thighs and tip my cock back toward his hand. This time it was slower, less urgent, as Sherlock fucked my thighs, and my prick fucked his hand. Best hand job ever. My fascination with his hands is now, officially, a kink._

_I think my face is about to catch fire. I will never admit this to_ _anyone, but I totally got off on the sensations of Sherlock’s prick rubbing my arse and balls. As a doctor, I know that there are lots of nerve endings concentrated in the area of the anus. I know that, but I’ve never actually tried to sexually stimulate them. I think I was afraid that would seem too gay. God, the damage my parents did to my head. Sherlock shifted somehow so that he was rubbing his prick directly over my anus. Oh God. I have never wanted to be penetrated before. I do now. I’m actually thinking about getting a dildo to see what it’s like, maybe experiment slowly on my own terms._

_Sherlock came first making these little snuffling, mewling gasps against the back of my neck. I flexed my thighs and actually felt him come against my balls. It’s the weirdest, most arousing sensation to feel liquid heat on your perianal area. It sent me into the most intense climax I’ve had in forever. I know it’s not just the sex; it’s because it’s sex with Sherlock, and I love him. We seem to have done this a bit out of order. I had intended to tell him I loved him first. Now if I say it, he’ll think it’s just a neurochemical reaction. It can wait. I can wait. I’ll say it when he’s comfortable enough in our relationship to believe me. And, I really hope he’ll be able to say it back._

_He’s asleep now, dead to the world, finally getting the rest he needs to help reset Big Brain and The Hard Drive; the bed is destroyed. Everything on the bed is soaked in lube and dried come. He woke up about half an hour ago and started frotting against my thigh. I kissed him and gave my first ever hand job. From his long, low moans, I’m guessing I did okay. Sherlock is gorgeous when he comes. I wish I could have come with him. The spirit was willing, but the flesh was weak. So, this is what it’s like to have a younger lover. I can’t help but be amused by that._

_Fucking hell, I’m terrified. And, I’m still a fucked up mess. I need to deal with these emotions. I love Sherlock, but I think I’d die of shame if people knew that I’d just had sex with him. Logically I know there is nothing abnormal about being attracted to your own gender, but the rift between logically knowing and emotionally accepting seems so far. I don’t think I was ready for this, but I just started a sexual relationship with Sherlock._

Chapter End Notes: So, who caught the very blatant Harry Potter reference in this chapter? 

Bonus points for you popular culture aficionados if you identified the more obscure 1987 movie reference early on in the chapter.

*Please leave feedback. If you are reading this story and enjoying it even a little bit, I'd really appreciate a few words.


	5. 5

CHAPTER 5

The Scientific Method

Step 4: The Experiment Begins

 

Five days after that, Eric, the handyman, finished the upstairs bedrooms. They were spectacular. He had used spray foam insulation and triple pane glass to cut down on the drafts. Rosie would be snug. He had put a window seat in the window alcove with a storage bench for blankets and toys. Neither of the rooms were terribly large, but they would each hold up to a double bed, a chest, a desk and a nightstand if it were small. John was pleased and immediately began moving Rosie’s things into her room. It was a blessed relief to get her toys and miscellaneous baby paraphernalia out of the sitting room and organized in her closet and along the built in shelves.

John bit his lip and quietly asked Sherlock if he wanted John to move to the upstairs bedroom. Sherlock fixed him with a cool glare, said “Don’t be an idiot, Watson,” and that was the end of it.

John was at work three days later when he received a call from Mycroft to come to his office.

“The real one in the dungeon or the one upstairs where everyone thinks you’re a minor government employee?”

Mycroft chuckled. “The one upstairs. It appears Sherlock has solved the serial killer case. The big reveal is to take place in my office, it seems.”

“Why your office and not Lestrade’s?” John mused.

“I can only imagine he wants something. My guess is Scotland Yard will need the additional resources available to me to apprehend the killer.”

“Be there in five,” John said crisply and hung up the phone heading for the bank of elevators at the end of the hall. The underground offices and clinic were commonly referred to as being located in the dungeon; only one bank of secured elevators made them accessible to the upper floors, and there were two sets of stairs that were to be used only in the event of an emergency. John swiped his ID badge and punched in the button for the fifth floor.

Within two days, John had settled in so well it seemed to everyone he had been there forever. The first day there had been an agent in need of eighteen stitches and another with a through and through gunshot wound to the upper arm. John was very much in his element.

It was a shame that Mycroft’s upstairs office went mostly unused; it has a nice view, he thought to himself. The select group of employees who were in the know about the dungeons kept that information strictly confidential and maintained the polite fiction that Mycroft Holmes was a minor government functionary who traveled extensively for his job. No one, of course, was precisely sure what that job was.

John arrived with forty seconds to spare and was surprised to note that he was the last one there. Sherlock looked to be putting the finishing touches on hooking up a power point presentation, fiddling with the connection cables.

“Oh goody, pictures,” Mycroft mocked.

Sherlock ignored him. John took a seat at the table next to Lestrade. He was a bit surprised to see Sally Donovan there until he remembered that she was on track to make DI herself soon. Mycroft took a seat at the head of the conference table while Sherlock eschewed a seat to stand next to the projection screen and began to speak.

“As you are aware, the first two bodies were discovered at #11 Privet Drive on September 19th of this year.” The projector hummed and pictures of the first two victims flashed on the screen. “Both victims were found with their wrists and ankles bound in rope, the killer having used double constrictor knots with a slipped bight; this knot is also referred to as the torture knot. The more the victim struggles, the tighter it binds. The fingers, hands and other nerve rich areas of the body were repeatedly sliced by a sharp thin object like a surgical scalpel or a razor blade. Nerve clusters around the body had been repeatedly pierced by a sharp, long, thin object, likely a finishing nail to cause maximum pain with minimal physical damage. The torture wrought was extensive. When the killer finished, he surgically removed the face of the female victim, also likely with a scalpel. At the time, NSY believed the killer may have heard something or was otherwise interrupted before he could remove the face of the male victim.”

Sherlock flashed through several still photos that graphically portrayed these facts. “On September 27th two more bodies were found. Again, both victims had been bound with double constrictor knots with a slipped bight. The bodies revealed marks of torture identical to the first victims.’ This time the faces of both victims were removed.” More slides flashed across the screen. “So, why the removal of the faces?” Sherlock speculated. “It wasn’t a forensic countermeasure. All of the victims still had teeth and could easily be identified from dental records, even if their fingerprints were shredded.” Sherlock paused to let his query sink in.

“On October 3rd another victim was found. Again the hands and feet were bound with the unusual double constrictor knots with a slipped bight. The body showed similar signs of torture. Unknown to our killer, apparently, this victim had an underlying heart condition that caused him to expire prematurely before shock and blood loss could finish the job. Like the second victim, the face was left intact.”

Sherlock scrolled through the crime scene photos of the murder in rapid succession.

“Where are you going with this Sherlock?” Lestrade asked. “We know all this.”

Sherlock smiled gleefully and continued as if Lestrade had never interrupted. “A random comment John made prompted me to comb through Scotland Yard’s murder records.”

“What did I say, Sherlock?” John queried.

“Well, you said several things actually. First you said that a serial killer doesn’t change his MO when we were discussing why some of the faces had been cut off and others left wholly intact. That led me to conclude that removing the face was not part of the killer’s MO. After discarding that red herring, I focused on the evidence that remained that was consistent, the torture knot always tied eight degrees counterclockwise to the victim’s center of mass, the cuts and the puncture wounds.”

“What about the burns on the third victim and the bleach poured in the eyes of the first victim?” Donovan interjected.

“Irrelevant,” Sherlock said dismissively. “Only the consistent patterns matter. That’s when I began combing through the database. Over the last thirty-three years I have identified one hundred and sixty-seven matches consistent with our MO.” The projector began whirring like mad as picture after picture flashed on the screen. Gasps were heard around the room as familiar pictures of cut patterns, puncture wounds and knots flashed again and again and again.

“Gentlemen and Lady,” Sherlock said with a nod toward Donovan, “We are dealing with one of the most prolific serial killers Britain has ever seen.” Sherlock paused for a moment and poured himself some water from the pitcher on the table.

“The other thing John said to me was that he wished he were more like Mary. That gave me the answer I needed regarding the pieces of the puzzle that didn’t match—why some of the victims had their faces removed, some had burns, some had acid poured down their throats, etc. Our killer is not some random impulsive serial killer who is out of control, but rather an extreme sadist who let his interests select his profession. Our serial killer is a hired assassin. The variations in motive are done either by him to prevent his pattern from becoming clear to the police or done at the request of the individual who took out the contract. He spaces out his kills far enough in time and location and changes enough of the torture details that the investigating officers never saw the pattern that linked an African-American female accountant in Sheffield with a retired male Anglo country doctor in Cardiff.”

Sherlock began flipping through additional photos, but these were screen shots taken from a computer.

“I had an acquaintance, who is probably one of the five best hackers in the world, run a scan of the dark web. As you can see, here are the most recent transactions. The victims who had their faces removed—well, as you can see that was a specific request made by the purchaser of our assassin’s services. The multiple brandings of the third victim, I believe can be traced back to this one that specifically says “Burn the bitch.” You’ll find many of the other recent requests here have a correlation among the listed victims.”

“And this couldn’t be a copycat?” Donovan asked with her eyes narrowed.

“I asked that. I did,” John interjected.

“No. A copycat, a student would have made a mistake somewhere, would have left some DNA, a partial fingerprint, hesitation marks. These are all very, very precise. Back when our killer started, there are a few mistakes on his earliest victims.”

Sherlock scrolled through several frames. “Here. With his second victim, 1981. I think he didn’t grip his razor blade tightly enough, and it slipped. There is mention in the report of blood that doesn’t match the victim’s. I suspect he switched to a scalpel thereafter. And here with the third victim, also 1981. There were a few skin cells found under the victim’s nails that weren’t her own.”

“Jesus Christ,” Lestrade swore loudly. “A bloody serial killer operating under our noses for over 30 years and no one made the connection until now.”

“I assume we are holding this meeting in my office because you have a plan to catch this madman that involves my assistance?” Mycroft said coolly.

“Yes,” Sherlock stated simply. “This man is a criminal genius. He has never been caught, and he never will be unless we set the right trap.”

“How do you know he’s never been caught? He may have done time for something else,” Donovan said tersely.

“No, the longest break between kills is eight months. He has, therefore, never been convicted of a felony, and he is too controlled, too methodical to be arrested for some ridiculous drunk and disorderly misdemeanor.”

“Alright, assuming you’re right Sherlock…,” Lestrade grunted to a halt at Sherlock’s raised brow and slight sneer. “Alright, taking it as a given that you’re right, Sherlock, how do we set a trap?” Lestrade said, hastily correcting his error.

Mycroft hmmmed. Sherlock looked at him. Mycroft blinked. Sherlock inclined his head.

“What are they doing?” Lestrade hissed to John.

“I’m not sure. I think it’s some form of telepathic communication,” John whispered back.

Mycroft smiled at John.

“Alright,” said Mycroft, “this is how we bait the trap…”

 

* * * * * * * * *

 

“Bit not good, Sherlock,” John groused as they arrived back at the flat.

“What?” Sherlock asked innocently.

“Volunteering Anderson to be the bait,” John huffed out angrily.

“And I say again it’s a complete win/win either way it goes.” Sherlock said with a grin as he picked Rosie up off the floor where she was playing with her blocks and tickled her.

Rosie screamed in delight and shouted “Erwokk.”

“Oh my God,” John gasped. “She just said her first word,” John quickly took her and pressed her to his chest. “What did you say, Love? Say it again.”

“John, she didn’t say anything; she’s just making random sounds,” Sherlock said dismissively.

Rosie took the opportunity at that moment to twist around in John’s grip, shout “Erwokk” again and grab the detective’s finger.

John looked at Sherlock, a bemused expression on his face.

“Well, that clinches it. My daughter just said her first word, and it’s not 'dada' or 'papa'; it’s Sherlock. Story of my life,” John muttered, but the rueful grin on his face belied any upset he may have projected.

He passed Rosie back to Sherlock as the two regarded one another intently. John chanced a glance at Sherlock and noticed the detective was blinking hard. John grinned.

“Who’s up for Indian and crap telly tonight?” he asked diverting everyone’s attention to the paper menu he pulled out of the kitchen drawer.

Nora looked at him and raised an eyebrow. John grinned back. Yeah, no one was fooled by Sherlock’s attempt to blink back tears, but he was going to let the other man have this. Drawing attention to it would only embarrass him.

_Excerpt from the private Blog of John Watson_

_Well, they got the bastard, and Anderson, much to Sherlock’s eternal disgust, was safe at home the whole time. Mycroft had one of his most trusted agents act as the target. I injected him with a GPS tracker deep into the muscle in his left hip, and Mycroft put 24 hour surveillance on him._

_Sherlock crafted the advertisement they posted on the dark web, making it sadistic enough that it appealed to the assassin but not too over the top as to make it look suspicious. I was amazed that Sherlock didn’t want to be more involved, to be the bait. I shudder remembering a certain cab driver serial killer._

_When I asked him about it, he looked surprised. “John, when you moved in here with Rosie, I made you two promises at your insistence. I promised I would not give into my addiction because you never wanted Rosie to see me that way, and I promised you that I would help you raise her. I can’t very well help you raise her if I’m dead, now can I?” I was stunned. Sherlock can still be crazy reckless sometimes, but he actually considered his own mortality, thought of Rosie, and opted not to go haring after a serial killer on his own. I have no words…_

_I’ve checked the newspapers daily for news of the arrest, but there hasn’t been a peep. I asked Sherlock about it. He flipped to page 14 and pointed to a column in the obits. Apparently Karl Marsden, age 56, died in a house fire 3 nights ago leaving behind no wife or children._

_I think this was Sherlock’s way of saying that Mycroft offed the bastard, but I don’t think I really want to know._

_We’ve been sleeping together every night. Now that the upstairs bedrooms are done, Nora has to know that Sherlock and I are doing more than just sleeping in his room, but she hasn’t said a word. She smiled at me yesterday when Sherlock caressed my cheek as he walked by. Her casual acceptance has done wonders for my self-esteem._

_As time passes, I am having less trouble bridging the divide between emotional acceptance of my bisexuality and the logical acceptance. I thought sex with Sherlock and this relationship would make it that much harder, make me question everything we do together. Make me…well, panic. I think at the end of the day it’s really hard to reject anything that brings you so much comfort, security, and pleasure._

_Sherlock is home to me in a way I cannot explain. I’m not sure I could be affectionate with him in public, but I’m making progress a little at a time. I continue to work with Dr. Wallace, and I really believe now that it’s possible to accept myself. When that day comes, Sherlock will be the first one I tell._

_But first, I’m going to tell him I love him. As soon as I can work up the nerve._


	6. 6

CHAPTER 6

The Scientific Method

Step 4: The Experiment Continues

John came awake and blearily tried to focus on the glowing numbers of the alarm clock, attempting to force them into some semblance of clarity. His phone chimed again, and he groped for it clumsily, trying to answer before it woke Sherlock.

He really should have known better.

The lamp on Sherlock’s nightstand flared into brilliant, blinding light as Sherlock lunged across John to grab for the phone.

“Oh, not Lestrade,” Sherlock mumbled dejectedly as the phone chimed again. He tossed the phone toward John and settled back into bed, leaving the light on, eyes glittering green-gold in the harsh lamplight.

“Hullo,” John mumbled through a sleep slackened throat.

“Hello, John,” came the crisp, efficient feminine voice on the other end of the line. “This is Agatha, at St. Bart’s. I was…”

“You were Sherlock’s night nurse when he was shot,” John interjected, brain beginning to process on adrenaline.

Agatha worked in the surgical intensive care ward. He looked over at Sherlock, whose still glittering, curious eyes met his own. If Sherlock was here…

“That’s right,” the motherly woman said somewhat sadly.

“What’s wrong?” John demanded, worried now but not sure why. Everyone he cared for was safe at Baker Street, so far as he knew.

“I probably shouldn’t be calling you. Your name was crossed out as her emergency contact, but there was no one else listed…,” she trailed off briefly. “Harriet Watson is in the surgical ICU. I probably shouldn’t be telling you this, John, but she may not make it. From the information we have, she was brought in with a blood alcohol level of .19, shocky and tachycardic. I’ve no idea what her BAC was earlier tonight. It appears she passed out at the flat of a Clara Burton after severely assaulting Ms. Burton. When she passed out, she went nearly face first into a glass coffee table, which shattered on impact. The lacerations were extensive, and she nearly bled out before Ms. Burton was able to call 999 and apply a tourniquet. Ms. Watson did manage to partially raise her right arm prior to impact, and that’s probably what saved her life. The glass severed her ulnar and radial arteries as opposed to the jugular or carotid had she not raised her hand enough to shield her face and neck.”

“Jesus,” John muttered as he swayed on his feet, having stood a bit too fast. He began searching for his trousers almost immediately.

“John?” Sherlock queried, concern evident in his furrowed brows, a strange dichotomy between the relaxed pose he affected and the coiled, taut energy he radiated.

John held up his index finger in the age old symbol for ‘in a minute’ as he continued to listen.

“Anything else?” John said a few moments later, nearly numb as he began pulling on his jumper.

He noted vaguely that, at some point during the conversation, Sherlock too had gotten up and begun to dress.

“You should be prepared. Despite partially shielding her face, the lacerations to her face are still extensive. And, I don’t want to alarm you, but the police are here. Your sister is handcuffed to her bed railing, and there is an officer stationed outside her door; as soon as she wakes up, they intend to question her. There is a Detective taking Ms. Burton’s statement now.”

“Oh my God,” John murmured as he headed for the stairs, Sherlock right behind him. “I’m on my way. If anything changes, please call me right away.” They said their goodbyes quickly as Sherlock locked the door behind them. John silently thanked whatever deities were listening that Sherlock could almost magically hail a taxi even at three in the bloody morning.

“St. Bart’s,” was the terse destination given to the taxi driver.

John immediately began to fill Sherlock in as he fumbled through his wallet, rooting around for his medical ID badge that would get him onto the surgical ward since visiting hours were long over, and he didn’t particularly feel like answering a lot of stupid questions as an emergency contact.

* * * * * * * * *

John gazed at his comatose older sister in a mixture of horror and pity. She was hooked up to every machine known to western medicine, except a ventilator. At least there was some small consolation that she was breathing on her own. John counted no less than eight bags of blood, antibiotics, and fluid support. A small pump at the side beeped every few minutes as it pushed in the benzodiazepines that kept Harry’s addicted body from going into DTs.

The black stitches crisscrossing her pale features made her look like Frankenstein’s monster. Part of her head had been shaved so the surgeons could stitch two of the deeper cuts that went past her hairline and into her scalp. Her right arm from just below the elbow down was heavily bandaged and had required extensive surgery to repair severed tendons and the lacerated arteries.

Apparently Clara had had the good sense to use the belt from her dressing gown and a spatula to create a tourniquet, which had unquestionably saved Harry’s life, but the amount of time it had taken for the ambulance to arrive and for Harry to receive appropriate medical attention had deprived the limb of necessary blood flow for long enough that it was 50/50 as to whether the hand would have to be amputated.

He looked at the bluish fingertips peeking out from the bandage and prayed that she would at least get to keep her hand even if it would never be more than partially functional ever again. At this point, Harry’s physicians were cautiously optimistic that she would survive this. She had been suffering serious blood loss upon arrival the previous evening and her kidneys had begun to shut down. Her blood tests, specifically ALT and AST, were showing signs of liver cirrhosis.

On the upside, her most recent kidney function tests were showing signs of improvement, but she would have to be hooked up to dialysis as soon as her body was able to withstand the strain. John heaved a tired sigh of relief and scrubbed his hands roughly across his face. And among all of the tubes and wires, the shiny silver of a chrome plated handcuff glittered garishly around her small, frail left wrist.

**********

“Was Clara Burton admitted? Is she alright?” John asked Agatha softly, worry evident in his tone.

The night nurse raised her head from the notes she was making into a chart. She typed a few things into her console and nodded a moment later. “Room 204, general ward,” she said. “I can’t give you any medical information, you know, but if she decides to fill you in…” the older woman said with a small shrug, “Well, that’s her prerogative then, isn’t it?”

John nodded his thanks and headed for the elevators, Sherlock a silent shadow next to him as he had been all night.

“Sherlock,” John said tightly as he bit his lip. “I need to do this alone.” His eyes softened minutely as he gazed at his friend. As soon as Sherlock’s face registered his understanding, John tapped lightly on the door to room 204 and called “Clara,” softly as he entered the room, leaving Sherlock standing a silent sentinel outside.

“John,” a pale and wan looking Clara said on a raspy sigh. She sounded at least somewhat pleased to see him, in spite of it all.

“Oh my God,” John gasped as he got a good look at Clara.

The physician in John began cataloguing injuries even as the man in him winced at the brutal beating the woman before him had endured. The left side of her face was black and blue, her eye completely swollen shut and the stitches at the side of her mouth made her look like a demented scarecrow. There were fingermarks ringed around her throat and bruising on her forearms consistent with defensive wounds. The way she sat, holding herself stiffly hinted at multiple fractured ribs. John noted this in a few seconds before registering the presence of another person in the room.

“Dr. Watson,” DI Gregory Lestrade said gruffly from his chair next to Clara’s hospital bed. He stood up quietly, motions controlled and soft somehow, designed to prevent victims from feeling threatened, John surmised. “John,” Lestrade said less formally as he motioned the other man toward the hallway. “Ms. Burton needs her rest.”

John hesitated. “Clara, if there is anything I can do…” John began quietly.

Clara smiled wanly with the right half of her mouth and shook her head minutely, in obvious deference to her painful head injuries.

“I’ll just go then,” he murmured softly. “Please get some rest.”

“John,” she whispered in a throaty rasp as he turned toward the door. He turned back and approached the bed carefully, movements consciously mimicking Lestrade’s as he came to her bedside and offered his hand. She grasped it tightly. “I’m pressing charges this time. I had a restraining order, and she came anyway. I was so careful to keep my address a secret,” her whispered rasp of a voice began to shake, and John realized she was sobbing now, her body shaking jerkily with each gasp and cry.

He sat quickly on the side of her bed and wrapped his free arm around her shoulders allowing her to lean forward and rest an unbruised section of her forehead against his shoulder.

“She slammed my head into a wall, John. I could feel the plaster shatter and cave in behind me… so much blood… and then she was choking me. I lost consciousness then. I was actually surprised when I woke up on the floor,” Clara sobbed harder. “I thought I was going to die,” she whimpered.

“I’m sorry,” John whispered, “so, so sorry.” He looked helplessly at Lestrade standing just inside the doorway, and the convulsive force of the sobs seemed to double.

The taller man nodded, exited swiftly and let the door swing shut. A moment later a nurse bustled into the room and injected a sedative into Clara’s IV. Within a minute, Clara was asleep and John lowered her gently onto the cervical pillow that prevented pressure from being applied to the occipital region of the injured woman’s head.

John nodded his thanks to the nurse who gave him a cold frown for upsetting her patient. He exited quietly, and found Lestrade and Sherlock standing in the hallway. Sherlock reached into his jacket and produced a handkerchief, gently wiping John’s face before tucking it back into his pocket. It was only then that John realized that half of the sobbing had been him.

* * * * * * * * *

John gripped a mug of tea tightly, staring into the murky depths of the milky, sweet beverage as if it held the answers to all of life’s questions. They had arrived back at Baker Street at 7:30 that morning, exhausted beyond words. Nora had taken just one look at the two of them, and John had broken down-- somewhat coherently relating the events of the night before.

The older woman had nodded sharply, bundled Rosie up and taken her to the crèche, stating that she would absent herself for the day. John suspected that she was going to Bart’s to see Harry but lacked the energy, or perhaps it was the motivation, to ask.

“I can call in a favor from Mycroft,” Sherlock began hesitantly, “perhaps get your sister into rehab in lieu of a harsh prison sentence.”

“No,” John thundered as he slammed down his teacup, head jerking up sharply as he looked at Sherlock, eyes piercing and nostrils flaring. “Sorry,” he murmured a moment later on a sigh. “I understand that you’re only trying to help, but enough is enough…. No more.”

John took a drink of the now lukewarm tea before continuing. “I was the sole beneficiary of my parents’ estate, did you know that?” he asked tiredly, voice cracking. “They had disowned Harry years before because she was gay. I set up bank accounts for both of us, and I gave her half. It wasn’t a large inheritance, but it wasn’t that meager either. Despite his numerous failings, my father was a functional alcoholic with a strong work ethic. He went to work every day at the factory for forty-two years; he and my mother managed to save a nest egg of around seventy thousand quid.”

John took a deep breath and swirled the tea in his cup, watching it lap along the edges. “Harry blew hers in less than two months. I’ve no idea where it went. She contacted me then asking for more. I refused. I knew what she’d do with it, you see. Then it was her landlord contacting me threatening to evict her. I paid her rent. And then she started getting into pub fights and other trouble. She needed money for a solicitor, money for rehab to keep from going to prison… And, God help me, idiot that I am, I paid and paid and paid until it was gone. All of the money my parents left me, all of the money I had managed to save while I was in the military, all of it gone to pay for Harry’s dangerous and idiotic life choices. I had had a plan, you see. Twenty years. I was going to spend twenty years in the military and then retire to a small village in Scotland, maybe, and open my own practice, help people who otherwise wouldn’t have immediate access to medical care. Sort of like what you planned, actually, but without the bees.” John smiled nostalgically, and Sherlock smiled too, reaching across the table to grasp John’s hand tightly.

“Why did you do it?” Sherlock asked.

“Guilt, mostly,” John answered mildly.

“Whatever for?” Sherlock demanded. “You were a child. Your parents are responsible for tossing her out like last week’s rubbish.”

“I know that, but she’s an addict, Sherlock. She is very, very good at manipulating people, making them believe what she wants them to believe. She was very good at making me believe I was the favored child, that I got the breaks while she got tossed into the street… that she just needed a little help, that she could turn her life around this time if I’d only believe in her. And I wanted to, Sherlock. I wanted to believe in her so much. I wanted to see the girl who used to sneak biscuits in to me when I was sick, who faked a note to my teacher so I could go watch Manchester United practice, who tried to keep my father from taking the belt to me after I got into a fight with Jimmy Phelps for trying to take my lunch money.”

John sighed again, picked up a lemon digestive and tossed it back onto the tea tray where the edge cracked off. John looked as forlorn as the broken cookie when he met Sherlock’s eyes.

“That’s why addicts are so convincing. They mean it. At the time, they mean every word. They have every intention of going to rehab, getting sober, getting their lives together. And every time, after time passes and there are no consequences or minimal consequences, all of those good intentions are forgotten until the next time they’re in trouble. And every time, the people who love them, over and over…we fall for it because we want so badly for it to be true, hoping this time is the time when they succeed.”

John reached over and picked up the broken cookie, turning it over and over in his fingers.

“It took me a lot of time in therapy and reading about co-dependence to understand that.” John felt a soft nuzzling at his knee and looked down to see Peppy’s soulful liquid brown eyes looking at him intently. John smiled and slipped the lemon biscuit to the dog. Prize acquired, Peppy laid down on John’s shoe to eat.

“So,” Sherlock said, every line of his body radiating a tightly coiled tension, “what, if anything, do you plan to do?”

John picked up another cookie and took a small bite, chewing slowly before handing the rest of the cookie almost reflexively to a blissed out Peppy.

“I’m going to do what I should have done years ago, before things got to this point. I’m going to let Harry face the consequences of her actions. If that includes prison time, then so be it,” John said harshly. “You don’t agree?” John asked, confused.

Sherlock shrugged. “I’m an addict, John. You know this. I understand your anger and frustration, but if Mycroft had washed his hands of me, I’d very likely be dead now.”

“It’s not the same thing, Sherlock. You’ve relapsed a few times since I’ve known you, but you try. You really try to stay clean, especially these last months.”

“I have a reason to now,” Sherlock said softly, squeezing John’s hand tightly and looking across the table at Rosie’s empty high chair.

John swallowed past the lump in his throat. “And not just that, either,” John sighed. “You’re self-destructive, Sherlock. You’re a complete tosser when you’re high…still brilliant but a complete tosser,” John reiterated. “Of course with you being a total arsehole most of the time anyway, it’s really hard to tell sometimes.”

“Why thank you, John,” Sherlock said silkily, smug little smirk toying at his lips.

“Anyway, as I was saying, the damage you do when you use is to yourself. To my knowledge, you’ve never, ever, raised a hand to anyone when you’re high, not even to defend yourself. Harry almost killed someone last night, someone she supposedly loves—and that wasn’t the first time. I know what that feels like; if you recall, I almost killed you, Sherlock. I don’t think you’ll ever know how that knowledge destroys a piece of my soul. But, I got help, finally, and I’m facing my demons. Harry is going to have to do the same before she kills someone. And if it takes forcing her to do it by no longer enabling her, then that’s what I’m going to do.”

Sherlock nodded. “Whatever you choose to do, however you want to handle this, I’ll support you.”

“I want to support Clara. She’s the real victim here, and I want to make sure she’s taken care of. Whatever resources or therapy you and Mycroft have access to, I want her to get them.”

“Agreed.”

John yawned and seemed to come to some realization. “Sherlock, why was Lestrade there? It seems like too much of a coincidence for the one DI we know well at NSY to get this case.”

Sherlock chuckled. “He has our names on an automatic alert, along with immediate family members. He’s set it up so that the case gets flagged and sent to him immediately.”

“Good to know,” John said as he pushed himself away from the table. “My shift at the clinic doesn’t start ‘til one. I’m gonna’ try to get a few hours of sleep before then. You coming?” John asked, barely suppressing another yawn.

Sherlock shook his head and steepled his fingers under his chin in his favorite thinking pose, untouched mug of tea still sitting at his right elbow. “No, you go ahead. I’ll wake you at 11:30 if you’re not up by then.”

John grunted a soft “hmmm” in acknowledgement and shuffled off to the bedroom, removing his shoes before pulling on his sleep mask and literally falling into bed. He was asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow.

John dragged himself out of bed at 11:25 when the alarm blared its obnoxious wake up reveille. He didn’t want to have to rely on Sherlock to wake him up; that seemed childish. When he was eight his parents had given him a Mickey Mouse alarm clock for Christmas. From that point on, he was responsible for getting himself out of bed and ready for school when the alarm rang at 6:30 each morning. Taught that responsibility at a young age, the thought of depending on someone else to wake him and get him, a grown man, ready for work…well, it rankled.

One very hot shower later, he shaved and dressed, heading downstairs following the scent of cinnamon and fresh coffee. For the umpteenth time in his life, he thanked whatever deities were listening that he had joined the army. If the military had taught him anything, it was to sleep like a rock whenever the opportunity presented itself and to eat whatever was available without complaint. Those abilities had served him well in his life, and he had no doubt they would continue to be a blessing especially in the weeks to come.

Sherlock was no gourmet, but he did know how to work the coffeepot and could microwave leftover sausages. He had also boiled water and emptied in 3 packets of instant apple cinnamon oatmeal; John smiled fondly, picked up the empty packets from where they had been left discarded next to the covered oatmeal pot and walked them over to the rubbish bin before wiping up the spilled coffee grounds scattered on the counter. He poured himself a very large cup of coffee and began to eat. Sherlock would show up in his own time.

Speak of the devil. Sherlock strode in just as John speared his third sausage. John smiled; why walk when one could make a dramatic entrance whether it be in a Belstaff, a fluttering sheet or an untied royal blue dressing gown worn over black trousers and a forest green dress shirt?

Sherlock grabbed the chair opposite John, flipped it smoothly around, and then sat straddle of it, chin resting on his arms folded across the back of the chair. His eyes glittered silver blue in the strong morning sunlight. John sensed a tension, a tautness in the grim set of the other man’s shoulders and a harsh set to his classic features.

“Something’s wrong, isn’t it?” John asked nervously, setting down his fork, sausage cold and untouched.

“Lestrade called a while ago. CPS has decided to charge Harry with attempted murder.”

John felt the blood drain from his face. “Jesus,” he muttered as he pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes in a desperate, vain attempt to push the information out of his mind. Not for the first time did he envy Sherlock’s ability to compartmentalize emotion and even delete information he did not wish to retain. “Jesus.”

“There are also the related charges, violation of the restraining order, breaking and entering, property damage… with her criminal history as a serial offender, they will throw the book at her, so to speak. By the time she gets out of prison, she’ll be an old woman, John. Her life will be over.”

“I know,” John murmured, his voice breaking to reflect something breaking inside himself. Was it his heart? His conscience? John finally took his hands away from his eyes as the tears of helpless rage and grief spilled over. “My fault…all my fault.”

“John, listen to me,” Sherlock demanded as he gripped the other man’s wrists and gave him a little shake. “None of this is your fault. This was Harry’s life, her choices that have brought her to this point.”

“If only I’d let her suffer the consequences of her actions years ago, maybe …”

“Maybe she’d be dead,” Sherlock interjected harshly. “Maybe she would be in prison for actual murder. Maybe she’d be married with the requisite 1.8 children. Maybe winged blue monkeys will fly out of my arse later,” Sherlock said in a rough voice, as he roughly shook John’s wrists again.

John stared at Sherlock for almost a full minute before bursting into hysterical laughter, listing to the side as he began to slide onto the floor.

Releasing John’s wrists, Sherlock stood quickly and grabbed John around the waist before he reached the floor. Half dragging and half walking, he led the clearly unhinged doctor through to the lounge, pushing him down onto the sofa. Sherlock stared in frustrated confusion. This was not something he was accustomed to dealing with, and his usual method of leaving the scene would probably be detrimental to John’s welfare, he reasoned. Emotional witnesses were John’s bailiwick—or Lestrade’s, not his.

He racked his brain for information and settled on an incident that occurred when he was six. He had been flying his kite when it had become entangled in a tree; he had tugged gently at the string to see if it would drop loose, but the kite had torn and come down in pieces at his feet. He had run to mummy sniffling, dragging the corpse of the now deceased kite behind him.

She had wrapped her arms around him and petted his hair until his immediate grief had passed. He wasn’t certain if the stroking had diminished the grief or if it had been his realization that he could build another kite, a better, more aerodynamic model than the store bought one, that had finally assuaged his tears, but the memory was all he had to go on.

He sat awkwardly on the couch next to John, wrapped his arms around the other man and began stroking long fingers through his gold/gray hair. He began to doubt the rightness of his actions when the hysterical laughter turned to gasping, hysterical sobs, but he persevered regretting immediately that he had no further data and no plan B to fall back on.

Just as he was debating giving up this ridiculous plan and attempting to locate the bottle of Scotch Lestrade had given John for his birthday, John began to settle, the sounds becoming less ragged and harsh, breathing settled into a more normal pattern and John’s arms came up seemingly of their own accord, as he clung to Sherlock, burying his face in the detective’s chest. Helplessly, Sherlock returned the embrace, resting his cheek atop John’s tucked head. He was completely and utterly baffled as to what to do.

Just as he was re-thinking sedation by ethyl alcohol, inspiration struck. Sherlock wouldn’t normally consider something he did to soothe Rosie as appropriate for John, but he was out of his depth and needs must… John found it soothing when Sherlock played his violin. He obviously couldn’t play now, but…. He began to hum, his deep baritone doing poor justice to the Brahms’ Lullaby, in his opinion, but it seemed to soothe John even further.

John gave a few last hiccupping gasps and pulled away, embarrassed at completely losing his mental balance. Much to his horror, he found he couldn’t pull away completely and allowed his hands to remain loosely wrapped around Sherlock.

“Winged monkeys, Sherlock?” John said, stifling a snort of laughter.

Sherlock shrugged. “I am somewhat conversant with modern slang expressions. That one seemed apropos to shake you out of your maudlin dive into pointless self-recriminations. I did not expect that reaction, however.”

John felt his ‘fond Sherlock’ smile twitch at the corners of his lips. “Not your fault. Not at all. It was emotion overload, I guess… everything that’s happened and everything that’s about to.” John finally managed to pull away and wipe his face, beginning the slow process of setting himself to rights and putting his mental armor, such as it was—tattered, frayed and looking a bit worse for wear—back into place.

Sherlock allowed John his need to restore a semblance of order but felt strangely bereft without John’s warm weight in his arms.

“John,” Sherlock began hesitantly. “I know you didn’t want any special favors for Harry…”

“What did you do, Sherlock?” John asked, voice resigned.

“Nothing with regard to her legal matters. I did, however, call Mycroft and arranged for the best reconstructive surgeon in Europe to have a look at Harry—Dr. Josephina Keener. She was one of the doctors who treated me…after Serbia,” Sherlock finished quietly.

John felt an ache bloom deep in his chest at the sheer kindness Sherlock was capable of, when he wanted to be kind. “Thank you,” John murmured softly. “Oh God, I’m going to be late for work,” John cried out as he attempted to lever himself into a standing position.

“John, Dr. King called while you were in the shower. The other doctors at the clinic are willing to cover your position as long as you need. I’m not sure how they found it. It might have been Mycroft, or one of them may have been called to Bart’s on a consult and learned of it there. Regardless, they want to help.”

“I don’t need help,” John insisted, stubborn resolve rising to the fore. He sighed gustily when he saw the look of concern being directed toward him. “I appreciate it, really I do, but I need to work right now. I need to have some semblance of normalcy, do something productive. I can’t help Harry, and I need time to figure out what to say to her. I’ll go mad if I have to sit here or at Bart’s with nothing to do. Surely you understand?” John pleaded.

If anyone understood helplessness induced madness, it was Sherlock.

“I’ll stop in at Bart’s after work. The specialist will have had time to evaluate her; hopefully, there will be some progress at that point.” John pocketed his wallet, cell phone and keys, grabbed his jacket and headed out, opting for a taxi instead of the tube. He’d still be late, but it would only be by half an hour at most.

**********

Sherlock’s mobile pinged just as he was adding the reagent to some desiccated epithelial cells on his slide. He gusted a sigh, took one last, longing look at his microscope, and began to search for the blasted device. It wasn’t often that Nora was gone long enough for him to co-opt the kitchen for one of his experiments, but whenever she was, he liked to take full advantage of it.

He was sure he’d left his phone on the sofa. He considered ignoring it, but it could be Lestrade, and he was in desperate need of a new case. It pinged again, allowing him to finally pinpoint its location under the edge of the lamp table.

_6:14 pm Sherlock, I need you. JW_

_6:17 pm Please. JW_

_6:18 pm Where are you? SH_

_6:18 pm Bart’s. They’ve just taken Harry in to surgery. Gangrene’s set in. They’re going to amputate. JW_

“Fuck,” Sherlock swore softly. He took off his dressing gown and tossed it on the couch. He patted himself down finding his wallet in his pocket while simultaneously checking over the flat quickly—John’s House Rule #1. Good. Nothing was in imminent danger of putrefying (don’t ask) or catching fire. Rosie was at the crèche. He tucked his Belstaff over his arm, set the door handle to lock and was out of the flat and hailing a cab in 2 minutes flat.

_6:21 pm On the way. SH_

When Sherlock strode into the surgical waiting area it was to find Nora sitting with Mycroft of all people.

“Brother,” Mycroft greeted his sibling, releasing Nora’s hand to gesture his brother across the room to the alcove where the coffee was situated. “I came as soon as I heard. When I arrived, I agreed to sit with Mrs. Hastings until Dr. Watson returned.”

Sherlock nodded. “Where is John?”

“I believe he said he was going to room 204 to talk with a Ms. Burton. He wanted to let her know about Harriet Watson’s condition before she found out from someone else. Dr. Watson has his issues, but fundamentally, at heart, I believe he is a good man. You could do much worse, brother.”

Sherlock’s raised brow spoke volumes.

“Speaking of which,” Mycroft continued smoothly, “how goes the campaign to woo the good doctor? You haven’t been to the brothel in several months now.”

“Mycroft, are you genetically incapable of minding your own business or is this a new side effect of your blood pressure and cholesterol medications, in addition to the impotence, that is?” Sherlock asked in a tone cold enough to drop the ambient temperature ten degrees.

Mycroft smiled his dangerous shark smile. “Just looking out for the welfare of my little brother,” he said smugly.

“Sherlock,” John called, relief evident in his voice as he stepped off the elevator and headed straight toward the other man.

Sherlock closed his mouth on what was certain to be a cutting retort as he switched his focus to John.

“Gentlemen,” Mycroft said softly. “I will take my leave and allow the family their privacy.”

John watched as Mycroft exited the surgery ward.

“John, what can I do?” Sherlock asked, brows knitted.

“I don’t know,” John answered, scrubbing his hands across his tired eyes, the first vestiges of stubble rubbing like light sandpaper over his fingers. “I should have thought this through before calling … errr… texting you. There’s nothing you can do here except sit and wait like the rest of us. Harry’s surgeon called me an hour ago; I probably should have stayed at work, but…” he shrugged as he struggled to find words. “I just don’t know that I could have provided proper patient care when most of my mind was occupied with Harry. We’re bored bloody senseless already,” he said as he nodded toward Nora who was at least keeping her hands occupied. She appeared to be knitting Christmas stockings. “You’ll go out of your mind sitting here.”

Sherlock ignored the doctor’s remonstrations and tried to figure out what polite social convention dictated in circumstances like these. This was more Mycroft’s area than his, and he immediately regretted not asking for a few hints before The British Government sauntered off for parts unknown… probably toppling some third world dictator or other, Sherlock thought snidely.

He had vague recollections of his grandmother bemoaning his etiquette and chastising him for not showing an interest in other people’s lives. He personally thought most people led bland and boring routine lives, and there was little of interest he could not deduce when he cared enough to make the effort. Still, it was for John…

“How did Clara take the news?” Sherlock asked. He personally thought he sounded a bit wooden and unemotional, but John latched onto the question as if Sherlock had thrown him a lifeline.

“Not well…blames herself for not calling 999 faster, holding the tourniquet too tight.”

“Did she?”

“Absolutely not, and I told her so,” John ground out between gritted teeth. “Harry would’ve bled out if not for Clara. I’m amazed she had the presence of mind to call for help let alone get the bleeding stopped given the severity of the concussion she was suffering. And, it’s not just a concussion. There was an occipital skull fracture under all of that mess as well; I took a brief look at her chart when she nodded off. She’s lucky to be alive. I can’t honestly say that if I were in her place I wouldn’t have just let my attacker bleed out.”

“You wouldn’t,” Sherlock said with assurance.

“No, you wouldn’t,” John said with a haunted look in his eyes as he remembered Sherlock putting a gun to his own head.

“You’re thinking of Eurus,” Sherlock said in a cold, detached voice. “Don’t.”

“It’s not that simple, Sherlock,” John said quietly. “We common people can’t delete things we don’t want to remember. And I remember just a few weeks after I almost beat you to death, you put a gun to your own head so that you wouldn’t have to kill either me or Mycroft; either of us was far more deserving of that bullet than you were.”

“It was the logical choice. Eurus was toying with me. The entire game was designed to torture me into madness. Even when we played by her rules, she dropped two innocent men to their deaths; she lied about Molly Hooper’s imminent demise. Ergo, when two people play a game—one playing by the rules and one who cheats at will, who will win? At that point, Eurus had demonstrated an identifiable pattern of cheating, so to speak, manipulating each outcome to cause the maximum amount of emotional torment. The only logical choice was to refuse to play any longer; it gave you, Mycroft and the fictional people on the doomed plane the best odds of surviving since she had demonstrated no particular interest in anyone other than me.”

“Still,” John whispered, “I’m not sure I could have done that.”

“You would have.” Sherlock’s tone left no room for doubt, no margin for error, and John let it go—determined to live up to Sherlock’s good opinion of him.

The surgeon came out to speak with them a little after nine.

“She’s in recovery now, and the prognosis is very good. We removed all of the gangrenous tissue. She’s on high doses of antibiotics and painkillers, and it’s unlikely that she’ll wake before morning. You should go home now. I hear from Mycroft that you’ve a little one at home.” The older woman smiled. “Go home and take care of her, Dr. Watson.” She removed the cover from her hair and turned tiredly for the elevator. She paused for a moment before turning back to the assembled trio. “Harriet’s full toxicological results came in early this morning. At the time she assaulted Ms. Burton, she was quite intoxicated, as you know. Her results also indicate recent heroin use. The medical staff have confirmed the presence of track marks between her toes. I’m so sorry,” she added softly.

John looked numbly after her, uncertain.

“John, take Nora home and call for take away. I’ll pick Rosie up from the crèche and meet you back at Baker Street,” Sherlock said decisively. Sherlock watched the pair shuffle for the elevators and realized it was more a case of Nora taking John home, but the details were irrelevant. He hailed a cab.

**********

John propped himself up in bed that night, two pillows behind him as he watched Sherlock plug in his phone and laptop.

“Well, that explains a lot. The heroin, I mean.”

Sherlock looked at him curiously.

“Synergistic effect,” John murmured.

Sherlock nodded. “Yes, more alcohol would increase the effects of inebriation only on a linear scale. The addition of the heroin would multiply the effects of the euphoria exponentially. More bang for the buck,” he said, lips popping the ‘b’ and the ‘k’ sounds to emphasize the point.

“Yeah, I wondered why Harry, an alcoholic for more than twenty years, would be so affected as to pass out with a blood alcohol content of .19%. That’s enough to put me down, but not someone like Harry who’s built up a tolerance over decades of hard use. Add in the heroin, Jesus, that would cause heart palpitations, paranoia, … and, of course, the sudden loss of consciousness now makes sense.”

“Makes the previous events seem almost inevitable,” Sherlock said quietly as he turned off the lamp.

“Do you need…?” John asked softly.

“An orgasm or three?” Sherlock finished still somewhat amused at John’s timidity. “No. Maybe in a day or two. Do you need something?”

“Oh God yes, please.” John whispered, uncertain why but darkness always seemed to create the need to whisper. John turned over on his side, and he relaxed as he felt Sherlock curl behind him. Sherlock didn’t particularly care to cuddle, at least he didn’t like to sleep that way. He would gladly hold John until the other man fell asleep and then roll over onto his side of the bed. Sherlock claimed he got too hot pressed against someone else; he was also an incredibly light sleeper and would awaken instantly if he were touched during sleep. John suspected it had something to do with being the brightest student at the boarding school, and, knowing Sherlock, he hadn’t had the social understanding to conceal that from the other children.

The old saying ‘children can be cruel’ was inherently wrong. In John’s understanding, children could be downright vicious. He remembered well the aftermath of Harry’s homosexuality becoming common knowledge at school. He had had more fistfights that year than he had had in his entire career in the military, including basic training.

He was almost asleep when he felt Sherlock pull away and heard his laptop click open. A moment later, Sherlock turned the fan on and blessed white noise lulled John into sleep. When John awoke, Sherlock was gone and his side of the bed was stone cold to the touch. John shivered as he climbed out of his nest of blankets and made a mental note to speak to Mrs. Hudson about getting that handyman to replace the old windows and maybe take a look at the building’s ancient boiler.

Showered, shaved and dressed, John headed down to find Sherlock on his laptop, fingers flying.

“John, I’ve been thinking.”

John paused in the act of buttering a slice of toast. Which brain was thinking? Was it The Hard Drive, which meant he could be in imminent need of Lestrade to come fish them out of the Thames following the successful apprehension of a serial arsonist near the dock? Or was it Big Brain, in which case he may have concluded that John’s bisexuality meant that they needed to engage in a ménage-a-trois this weekend?

John sat down, took a huge gulp of coffee and prepared himself for the worst.

“I understand your reluctance to assist Harry with her legal matters, and I know that you fear she would be able to manipulate you emotionally as she has done before. That would be detrimental to your psychological well-being and, therefore, could affect Rosie and your patients.” John nodded, wary now. “I, however, have no emotional relationship with her and cannot be manipulated. So, I am proposing that you allow me to see if something can be done to assure that she does not spend what effectively amounts to the rest of her life in prison.”

“Why? Why would you do this, Sherlock? You saw what she did to Clara.”

“I did. But, I am very familiar with the demons of heroin, John, the paranoia and the occasional hallucinations. It’s not like it’s regulated by the Crown. You never know what it’s cut with and how bad the side effects are going to be. Some dealers cut it with rat poison and some even add LSD making the hallucinations so much worse. Moreover, I am simply not convinced that your sister intended to kill Clara Burton; what little you've told me of Harry's previous legal woes as well as her criminal record seems to bear that out.”

John sighed and looked at his cold toast. The only thing keeping him from throwing a screaming fit right now was the fact that Rosie was playing on a blanket in the lounge. John sighed again…and there was also the fact that Sherlock was almost always right.

“For the sake of argument, let’s suppose you’re right. What am I missing? It’s not like Harry doesn’t have a history of drunken violence.”

“I’ve had Lestrade pull all of the prior police reports regarding Harriet Watson. In each instance where your sister became physically violent, it was arguably a matter of self-defense: a bookie who was threatening her, a man in a bar—and from all accounts he instigated the fight when she turned down his advances, and a car repossession agent—who in her inebriated state appeared to be trying to steal her car.”

“What about Clara?” John demanded.

“What about her?” Sherlock replied.

“She was so afraid of Harry that she got a restraining order.”

“Yes, I’ve read all of her court statements and her police reports. While your sister was stalking, threatening, intimidating and even committed wanton acts of property violence in order to cow Ms. Burton, she had never actually struck her until two nights ago.”

“So, you think tainted heroin may have been responsible for bringing on some sort of drug induced psychosis?”

“That’s my current, working theory, yes. I’m trying to get a sample sent to Redwood Screening for a more in depth testing. I’d also like to get it analyzed by a mass spectrometer. Harry will need legal representation and the sooner the better to ensure that she receives a fair hearing; her attorney will have much more solid legal footing to get blood samples taken at the time of the incident analyzed further.”

John rolled Sherlock’s theory around in his mind. “You know as well as I do the fact that she took the heroin voluntarily mitigates any legal defense. And the track marks between her toes make a strong case for voluntary injection. If someone had dosed her without her knowledge and consent it would be different, but voluntary intoxication isn’t a defense to a crime.”

“Yes, I know. I know how people look down on addicts, how we are judged, how people say, ‘well, you should have known better than to inject that filth, that poison, into your body.’ And in the event of an overdose,” Sherlock mocked, “just another dead junkie. Isn’t society so much better off? And almost no one wants to look with compassion and see the people behind the addiction. If society could just give one moment of thought to how much emotional, physical or psychological torment a human being must be suffering to actually inject that filth, that poison into a vein? I know the legalities as well you do, but it doesn’t make it right.”

John chewed his lip for a moment before asking finally, “So what do you want to see happen?”

“Ideally, if I’m correct about the blood sample showing tainted heroin, I would like to see the charges dropped to aggravated assault. I would like to see your sister in a real addiction program with years of court ordered mandated therapy, perhaps living in a group home with constant monitoring. Prison time should be commensurate with the aggravated assault charge and some form of financial restitution should be ordered as well, to cover Ms. Burton’s damaged property, lost wages, and pain and suffering.”

“You realize that the British legal system is inadequate to set up and enforce such a program?” John said softly, waiting for the shoe to drop.

“Yes, but there is a private detox and addiction program that would be ideal,” Sherlock said as he pushed his laptop over to John who began to read. “Do we have any honey?” Sherlock asked as he swiped a piece of cold, buttered toast from John’s plate.

“Cabinet, third shelf up,” John said as he gestured to the cabinet by the sink.

“Correction,” Sherlock’s snide tones cut through the tense air. “Do we have any real honey that does not come in a small, plastic bear with a ridiculous painted grin on its face?”

“Rosie likes that one,” Nora called from the lounge.

Sherlock snorted. “What does a one year old know about anything?” he bemoaned.

“There’s some fresh blackberry jam from the farmer’s market in the fridge,” John muttered. “God, you’re a whiny bastard this morning.”

“Language, John,” Nora reprimanded.

Sherlock snorted again, this time with laughter as he took his jam and toast into the living room.

Thirty minutes later, John had finished reading through the websites Sherlock had marked. The first was an addiction recovery clinic that was actually held in an ancient Tibetan monastery. The clients received counseling from licensed therapists and lived and worked alongside the monks. There was no Wi-Fi, no television, and no modern conveniences. They were miles from any village, and there was virtually no way to get drugs or alcohol into the monastery. The program lasted a year. The therapy was intensive as the program took only twenty patients at a time. In their off hours, the patients were expected to work in the fields next to the monks and grow their own food. Harry would hate it there.

The second website was for a halfway house in Cardiff. The residents were required to get jobs in the community to help pay restitution to their victims. They were drug tested daily and received two to four hours of intensive counseling daily; group therapy was held three times per week. They had a strict zero tolerance policy; any resident who tested positive was returned to the criminal justice system to serve out his/her criminal sentence.

John closed Sherlock’s laptop with a shake of his head.

“What do you think?” Sherlock asked looking like nothing so much as an excited puppy.

“I think it’s brilliant, Sherlock. Not sure where I’ll come up with a hundred thousand pounds sterling, but otherwise…looks great,” John said facetiously.

“I’ll pay for it, John,” Sherlock said, amused. “If the blood test results reveal what I suspect, I’ll hire a solicitor to represent your sister and pay for the best rehabilitation program available.”

“And how exactly do you propose to do that then? With what money? I know you can command exorbitant fees for your detective services, but with the costs of legal representation added in, this could run into multiple hundreds of thousands, Sherlock!” John insisted. “And even if you could raise that kind of money, I’ve no idea how I’d ever manage to pay you back.”

Sherlock merely raised an eyebrow and pulled the laptop across the table. He re-opened it and typed briefly, the keys clacking out a thudding, definitive bite before he pushed the computer back across the table. A new window had been loaded, and John stared aghast at the lines of numbers running across the screen.

John goggled unbelieving at the bank balance of William Sherlock Scott Holmes, his jaw working but no sounds emerging. Sherlock was a millionaire many, many times over. John looked up at his friend…lover…and then back to the screen. And again. And again, feeling as if he were watching a strange tableau of a financial tennis match.

“How…?” he stuttered at last. “How…is this possible?” he ended on a soft, confused whisper.

Sherlock shrugged. “When he died, my maternal grandfather left Mycroft and myself small trust funds. And…well, let’s just say that investing is an interesting logic game to play when I’m bored.”

John blinked hard and then massaged his temples, pieces of a complex puzzle starting to fit together, and he wasn’t particularly pleased at how the pieces were slotting together.

“You don’t need a flatmate to help cover expenses. You never needed a flatmate,” John accused.

“No, I didn’t,” Sherlock conceded coolly. “But, then again I never said I did. I merely stated that between the two of us that we should be able to afford the rent, which was true. It was also true that Mrs. Hudson owed me a favor. I never lied; I never said that I couldn’t cover the rent on my own. You made an incorrect assumption, Watson. I can hardly be blamed for your erroneous deductions.”

John shook his head trying to clear it, but anger still simmered just beneath the surface, his emotions running hot and tight, a certainty niggling in his mind that he had somehow been used.

“Then what was this,” he gestured waving his hand between them, “some sort of social experiment?”

“Yes,” Sherlock said baldly, a statement of cold fact. “That is precisely how I thought of it when I first asked you about becoming flatmates. I had been reading various scientific papers where the researchers claimed that having a partner or team with whom they could discuss ideas, bounce theories around, led them to remarkable leaps of logic that allowed them to make much more rapid progress. I decided to test this theory to see if I could duplicate the results. I then devised an experiment, which was somewhat flawed in that I was both a researcher and a participant, but I made every attempt not to influence my own results.”

“What did you do?” John asked on a sigh, uncertain as to the extent of how he had been used.

“I simply let it be known to a select few individuals that I was in need of a flatmate. Stamford is a doctor; it was likely that he would make mention of this to another doctor or medical professional, someone whose insight would be beneficial to The Work. I also mentioned it to Lestrade who would likely pass this information on to another investigator or someone else involved in criminal apprehension, someone whose perspective could benefit The Work. These are professions that generally call for above average intelligence, Anderson aside, and naturally select for logical people with solid deductive reasoning skills, again Anderson aside. After dropping my hints, I readied myself to wait. And then Stamford brought me you.”

“Glad I could be of use,” John muttered with a small snort.

“And you were,” Sherlock stated calmly. “Very useful…indispensable to The Work.”

Despite his inability to grasp social cues, due to familiarity, Sherlock could read John better than other people; he was hurt, at least a little. John needed reassurance. “John,” Sherlock tried again. “As I’ve explained to you, The Work is essential to me…to my very sanity. You are indispensable to The Work, making you just as important to my sanity…,” Sherlock blundered awkwardly. “This experiment was the very epitome of success, do you understand?”

John chuckled softly; only Sherlock could muck up saying ‘you are important to me.’ “You’re lucky I speak fluent Sherlockian,” John joked with a wistful smile.

“I know,” Sherlock said deadpan, and John suspected that the other man was being literal instead of humorous.

“Okay,” John said on a long breath, “back to…” he said gesturing toward the computer. “Before I agree, I need to know why you want to do this, and we need to agree on some sort of repayment plan.”

“Don’t be an idiot, Watson. I don’t expect you to pay me back, and I am fairly certain Harriet will never be in a position to do so. What you earn should go to Rosie.”

Sherlock paused for a long minute. “As to the why... First off, she is your sister and despite your protestations to the contrary, what happens to her matters to you…very much so. Moreover, I know what it means to be an addict, to be at the mercy of a soul deep pain that is so profound that I would do anything to make it stop, even risk death. It’s different for each of us, and I have no idea what motivates your sister, what…”

“Demons?” John interjected.

Sherlock nodded. “…demons drive her to this self-destructive behavior, but I can tell you that no addict ever truly seeks sobriety until he or she hits absolute rock bottom, and that’s a different place for every one of us.”

John chewed his lip thoughtfully as he struggled with phrasing a question he had no right to ask.

“I know that this is none of my business, and if it’s too personal…,” he began, trailing off on a long breath. “Where is your rock bottom?”

Sherlock clenched and unclenched his jaw rhythmically, his eyes closed in deep concentration. He didn’t want to answer; it would be clear to a blind man, and yet John was certain he would answer simply because John had asked. Before his guilt could push him into retracting the question, Sherlock murmured, “you….you and Rosie. My bottom isn’t a place I’ve been; it’s the absolute certainty that you would take Rosie and leave. I know you never want her to see me high, and believe me when I say I understand that. I’ve seen myself high and coming down from a high—a filthy, desperate, rambling lunatic. I never want her to see that either.”

John felt a warmth tinged with pain and sadness bloom in his chest at Sherlock’s words. He’d had no idea as to how deeply complex Sherlock’s emotions were. The detective would undoubtedly say something scathing about useless sentiment if John tried to discuss it further or worse, act on it. He dismissed immediately the visions of himself wrapping Sherlock in his arms, hugging him, kissing him. The other man would not appreciate such a display of emotion and would undoubtedly deride such a display as useless sentiment. The one thing he could do was to change the topic of conversation, put Sherlock back in his comfort zone of logic and reason.

“Have you considered the ramifications of trying to help Harry? She won’t thank you. In fact, knowing my sister she’ll manipulate you until she bleeds you dry,” John said matter of factly.

“She can try,” Sherlock said on a soft laugh. “I assure you I am far better at manipulation than your sister ever aspired to be. Not only that, but to ‘bleed me dry’ as you phrased it, she would not only have to dupe me but Mycroft as well.”

John’s brow crinkled. “How’s that?”

“I can only access the funds in this account…, make a withdrawal,” Sherlock clarified, “with Mycroft’s consent. I can manipulate, invest, or otherwise transfer them about, but I cannot withdraw them. It’s a safety feature I implemented after you moved back in on the assumption that if I lacked access to large sums of cash, it would help to prevent me from using again,” Sherlock explained. “Anything I earn per month over a set minimum amount for rent, groceries and miscellaneous expenses is immediately deposited so that I no longer have access to it, which is why I didn’t cash that cheque I tried to give you for Rosie’s care. Had I cashed it, I would have had to honor my sworn agreement with Mycroft and deposit it.”

John was moved almost beyond words. “Thank you,” he whispered at last. “To know how hard you’re trying to stay clean…”

Sherlock waved his hand dismissively, clearly uncomfortable. “Back to your sister. Do I have your approval for this plan of action?”

“Do you really think she’s hit rock bottom? I know you’re right, and this cannot succeed unless she really is ready to change. Do you truly think she’s ready to really get help…get clean?”

“If she isn’t, she’ll undoubtedly be dead soon. I shudder to think how much worse things have to get before she considers that she’s hit bottom. She nearly killed the woman she loves; her hand and part of her arm has been amputated, and she’s currently fighting sepsis; she’s facing twenty years in prison, and she’s alienated everyone who has ever given a damn about her. She hasn’t a friend left in the world. I checked the visitation logs. Other than you and Nora, no one has come to see her or even sent flowers. When she failed to show at her last temp job, her employer terminated her, and her landlord has commenced eviction proceedings.”

“Jesus, where did it all go wrong?”

“Hopefully, therapy will shed some insight onto that for your sister,” Sherlock answered. He picked up his phone and opened it to the text message section, selecting Mycroft’s contact information. “Do I have your consent to help her, John?”

Scrubbing his hands across his face blearily, John gave a curt nod and hoped to hell that Harry really had finally hit bottom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ***Author will beg shamelessly for feedback. Just sayin'.... :)


	7. 7

**CHAPTER 7**

**The Scientific Method**

**Step 5: Preliminary Analysis**

 

_Excerpt from the private Blog of John Watson_

_Sorry, I haven’t written in over a week. I know this is part of my therapy, first from Ella and now from Dr. Wallace, but things have been insane here on my end. I’ve been in war. I know what it is to live in a constant state of fear every damn day until there’s so much adrenaline that you just become numb to it somehow until another round of gunfire or an IED ramps your heartrate up to a thousand. I never thought I would live like that again, but never say never. And, just like with the shelling, every time the phone rings or the doorbell chimes, I think my heart’s just gonna explode._

_First off, sepsis set in. Harry’s been fighting for her life for the last five days. Hell, given her drug use, she may have had a blood infection even before the gangrene took hold. Vancomycin and Gentamicin are currently keeping Harry alive, but I worry that she’s lost the will to live. She’s not taking the amputation well, not at all; she’s scheduled to begin receiving extensive psychotherapy as soon as she’s medically stable. And, as soon as she’s medically stable, she will undoubtedly be transferred to the prison ward._

_Sherlock hired Phillip Huffman to represent Harry as her solicitor. He’s the best criminal defense representative money can buy, but he thinks that there’s a zero chance of bail and that Harry is going straight from Bart’s to a prison hospital ward; given her criminal record, I can’t say I have any hope for a different outcome. And to top it all off, CPS has filed this in Crown Court and not the Magistrate’s Court as we’d hoped. The Crown Court can impose much harsher penalties, and with her already being charged with attempted murder… Still, it’s not time to give up hope._

_Sherlock was right, smug bastard. Huffman was able to get Harry’s blood sample re-tested at a state of the art lab. Someone, and it has to be a mid-level dealer or higher on the cartel food chain, is cutting and peddling some seriously hallucinogenic shit. Apparently, it’s some form of designer, synthetic LSD and heroin combo. Normally LSD is taken orally, but this stuff is made to go straight into a vein. How Harry got hold of this stuff is a mystery._

_Sherlock suspects that this may be a controlled release of some new product NSY is, as of yet, mostly unaware of and that one of the cartel distributors is setting up a test group. It’s probably the only theory that makes much sense. Two more suspected cases of designer LSD/heroin poisoning have turned up, but neither of the addicts survived the experience. One of them threw himself off a bridge and into the Thames…not sure if the impact, the hypothermia or drowning was the cause of death. Autopsy results are pending. He was raving to passersby about his skin being on fire beforehand, or I’m not sure NSY would have thought to test him. The other guy beat his girlfriend nearly to death, kept screaming something about her being a demon, before he clawed out his own eyes. His heart gave out before they could get him to hospital._

_The blood test results haven’t come back yet, but Lestrade’s scared shitless. He hasn’t said anything, but you can see it in his eyes._

_Sherlock’s even got Mycroft roped into this one on the assumption that it could be some sort of domestic terrorism plot. Sherlock had to connect the dots for me, but when he did… Can you imagine the havoc and sheer insanity that would result if even one tenth of the heroin addicts in London go into some violent, drug_ _induced frenzy within the span of just a week or two? This is one time I hope Sherlock and Mycroft are wrong._

_Sherlock is more than a little outraged, but The British Government has taken over this investigation and isn’t letting Sherlock anywhere near it. Since it’s to do with heroin, I can understand Mycroft’s logic in keeping Sherlock as far away from this as possible, but Mycroft doesn’t have to live with the mad, moody bastard._

_It’s a rather abrupt change of topic, but it is my private blog, so I’m entitled … I don’t know how to say this, really. Sherlock destroyed me last night, just took me completely apart. I’m not sure how he knew… Let’s be honest; it’s Sherlock we’re talking about here—the human bloodhound. He knew. He knew I wanted my arse played with._

_I actually went to one of those sex shops after work last week. I stayed for less than five minutes before I walked right back out again. My god, I’d no idea all of the varieties of things made to stick up a human arse. I suppose I should have; I’ve worked A &E on the night shift. I’ve removed a fair number of things from arseholes, literally, from a fairly large yam to a plastic, miniature Thomas the Tank Engine, and I still, to this day, have no idea what that bloke was thinking. _

_It was overwhelming, I suppose, and I was too embarrassed to ask for help from the sales associate, who barely looked old enough to hold down a job, for Christ sakes. Yeah. I shudder just thinking about that conversation. “I’m a forty year old who recently discovered I’m bisexual, and I’m an anal virgin. Can you tell me what I should be shoving up my arse?” No, … just, no._

_Sherlock took charge, as usual. Story of my life, really. He charges forward, and I go chasing merrily behind. Sorry, snorted some tea there and had to wipe off the screen. Behind. I’m the master of inadvertent bad puns today, it seems. I’m still not entirely sure how it quite happened. One minute he was giving me the most amazing, stellar, unbelievable blow job…God, that sweet little Cupid’s Bow mouth of his, and the next I felt the strangest tickling sensation against my anus. I’ve been enjoying it immensely when Sherlock’s prick slides along my cleft when we do that intercrural sex thing, but direct stimulation…_

_Oh my god, I had no idea. It was … no, I’m distancing myself, and I really can’t afford to do that if I want this therapy to work. Own it, Watson. I…I was so goddamned sensitive, if Sherlock hadn’t been holding me down, he would have had to peel me off of the ceiling with a palette knife. All I could think about was more, more, more… I may have said something to that effect, or I may have been just as incoherent as I suspect I was._

_Either way, next thing I knew he had a fingertip in me and was rubbing it slowly in and out; oh my god, did that feel amazing. Somehow one fingertip became two of those long, elegant pale fingers of his, and he had bent them slightly so that he was massaging my prostate between his thumb and two fingers. In the gay porn I’d watched, I’d never seen that done before, but he put his thumb against my perineum and then crooked his fingers inside and captured my prostate in between._

_I ripped out a fair number of his curly hairs and clawed up his shoulders, a few facts I found out afterwards, but at some point he repositioned himself over me. I think it must have taken most of his body weight to hold me down, and when I came, I remember screaming it into his kiss, him using his mouth to keep the entire population of Baker Street from thinking I was being murdered in my own bed. Orgasm seems such a mild word_ _for what I felt. Maybe religious experience? The second coming?_

_I had heard that prostate orgasms could be incredibly intense, but I honestly thought it was just a lot of hype. I mean, Jesus, in the military you’re subjected to a prostate exam every six months whether you need it or not. I never thought anything about them was the least bit pleasant, certainly nothing that would make me want to play with mine._

_I have suspicions that I may have blacked out for a minute or two. When I came back to myself, Sherlock was looking at me like I was a triple homicide locked room murder in a hermetically sealed safe room and there were no less than forty suspects with air tight alibis to break. His eyes were positively gleaming when he whispered, “Oh aren’t you sensitive? This is going to be fun.”_

_I’m doomed._

 

John had furiously shucked his tie and yanked off his coat before the door at 221 Baker Street had completely closed. He threw both at the newel post at the base of the stairs before trudging up the steps at a steady clip, each footfall radiating a sort of heart sore anger that Sherlock could not begin to fathom.

Harriet Watson had made her choice, and, as an addict himself, Sherlock could understand her choice. He didn’t support it, but he couldn’t honestly say that if he were in her position that he would have made a different choice. He stood side by side with Mrs. Hudson just inside the slightly open doorway, both of them listening to John banging around the kitchen ostensibly making tea, wincing at each bang and loudly uttered curse emanating from the upstairs flat.

“Sherlock,” Martha Hudson began slowly, breaking off as a particularly loud crash broke the sudden stillness.

“I think the electric teapot just died a most unnatural death,” Sherlock said calmly.

“You need to do something, Sherlock, before he hurts himself,” she insisted.

“What would you have me do? Spank him for throwing a tantrum? He has every right, wouldn’t you say? I’m hardly the one to console him anyway. I caused this; I gave him hope that I could help his sister, that I could fix her life, get her clean and sober, get her counseling. He was right, you know; I am a presumptuous prick. And my arrogance is responsible….”

“No, it isn’t,” a soft, but firm feminine voice came from the slightly open doorway.

“I’m sorry, dear. Have we met?” Mrs. Hudson inquired, her brows knitted slightly in confusion.

The woman gave her a tremulous smile before stepping into the foyer and saying, “No, no we haven’t. I’m Clara, John’s sister-in-law…well, former sister-in-law. I was in the back, near the door at the…,” she trailed off, biting her lip nervously.

Sherlock eyed her speculatively, eyes flickering a calculating cadence as he took in all of the details, all of the details he should have seen…would have seen before had he insisted on interviewing her himself.

“I need to speak to John,” Clara said firmly to Mrs. Hudson, but her eyes were on Sherlock.

“I don’t think this is the best time, dear…” Martha Hudson seemed to trail off as Sherlock nodded decisively.

“Yes, I think he needs to hear what you have to say,” he said firmly as he gestured the plump brunette up the stairs to 221B. “Damn,” he murmured softly. “I should have insisted on interviewing you myself instead of relying on the police reports; Lestrade’s objections be damned. I can’t believe I missed that,” he said with an angry, self-deprecating head shake as he pushed open the door to 221B and gestured her toward the interview chair.

“John, there is someone here to see you,” he called.

“Tell them to sod off,” John retorted, striding out of the bedroom having changed out of his best suit and into jeans and a jumper. “Clara,” he stopped dead at the doorway into the living room, a note of soft surprise in his voice.

“John,” she stood up to face him and sighed, a soft, sad smile tugging at her mouth awkwardly. “I’ve been trying to work up the nerve to see you since it happened,” she said brokenly, clutching her oversized hobo bag to her chest; the purse had clearly seen better days.

“Sherlock,” John said as he remembered his manners, “this is Clara Burton, Harry’s ex-spouse. Clara, this is Sherlock Holmes, my … partner,” John gurgled helplessly a note of surprise in his voice, and he wondered that in all of these weeks he’d never thought to try to label what he and Sherlock were to each other now.

Sherlock inclined his head and gestured for her to sit. “Would you like me to make tea?” Sherlock murmured; he could probably boil water and steep tea in a saucepan. He wasn’t one for reading social cues, but even he could feel the tension in the room and felt a semi-urgent desire to be elsewhere. Unlike John, he had deduced what was coming. This was not going to be good by any stretch of the imagination.

“Please stay,” Clara answered quickly. “I heard what you said downstairs to your landlady, and I think you should hear this too.” She chewed her lip for a moment and then began fumbling in her battered handbag. Within a moment she had drawn out a crumpled sheaf of photographs and papers and offered them to John with a shaking hand.

John looked confused for a moment but settled gently into his chair and began to sift quickly through the documents.

Sherlock walked swiftly across the room and situated himself behind John’s chair so he could read over the other man’s shoulder. It was as he had suspected just before he berated himself downstairs.

John sorted through the pages rapidly and then again a bit more slowly, lingering the longest over the photographs. “Jesus,” he muttered as he dropped the whole stack on the coffee table and sat back to scrub tired hands across his eyes. “How long?” he asked finally.

“Almost from the beginning. At first it was just a little shake, or a few bruises where Harry would grab my wrist to make a point. I don’t know if you ever knew this, but I’m bisexual. Harry was always sure that any man I looked at for more than two seconds was someone I was having an affair with. She was always so insecure and paranoid, and in the beginning, I thought her jealousy was kind of sweet. I’m not sure when she began hitting me. At first she was careful never to hit me in the face, and then over time, she didn’t much care where she hit me anymore or how hard.”

She gestured to the copies of her medical records. “Every time, she was sorry. She promised to get help and never do it again. She’d call you and tell you that she needed to go to rehab, and you’d send her to private clinics and get her help, and then she’d get out and start drinking again within a few months. And then she’d hit me. Or she’d get into a pub brawl or something, and then the whole cycle would repeat.”

She paused to find a tissue in her purse and wipe her eyes. “I finally couldn’t take it anymore. After she fractured my wrist and cracked two ribs, I was done. I left and made sure she didn’t know where I was living. I reported the stalking behavior, and my employer was able to confirm it, as she had seen Harry waiting outside and harassing me before and after work. That was enough to get a restraining order. I didn’t want her to go to prison, John. God help me, I still loved her.”

“Why didn’t any of this turn up before? I had Lestrade pull your medical records before I ever approached Harry about getting her legal counsel and trying to work out a plea deal for aggravated assault and rehabilitation,” Sherlock demanded.

Clara chewed her lip while gazing at her hands twisted in her lap. “I didn’t want to use my own medical card, so a friend let me use hers. I went to a clinic where they’re always overworked and don’t check very thoroughly … when I went for medical treatment, that is. Most of the time, I just hid it until it healed.”

“Oh my God,” John murmured. “Why didn’t you come to me? I would have helped you.”

“I know, but I didn’t want you to know. I didn’t want anyone to know. I was so ashamed. How was I supposed to admit that I let my female partner, who weighs two stone less than I do, beat me up?” She began crying in earnest then, fat drops rolling down her cheeks, and she wiped, viciously, smearing her mascara. “When you visited me in hospital to tell me about Harry’s surgery, you blamed yourself for not going more ‘tough love’ on Harry. And I could see by the way you behaved today that you’re still blaming yourself for her choices. You thought her behavior was your fault. And your partner thinks that this mess is his fault. It’s not.”

She took a deep breath before finally blurting, “Harry killed herself because of me, John.”

John had already begun to shake his head when she interjected, “Yes, it is my fault. Listen to me,” she demanded, enunciating each word very clearly, as she reached over to grasp John’s forearm tightly. “I went to see her before they discharged me.”

“You couldn’t have,” Sherlock said. “I checked the visitor logs. Hospital policy requires anyone visiting a patient to sign in and receive authorization. Even when John and I went, we had to sign in each and every time, even though he is immediate family.”

“I was already a patient, so I bypassed the visitor’s desk. I simply rolled my wheelchair down to Harry’s room once she was transferred from the surgical ICU to a private room. John told me which room was assigned to her, and I went to see her. I…,” she said with a slight stammer. “I just wanted to see that she was alright. She looked terrible, but she acted like she was glad to see me. She told me about the heroin and said she was sorry and about how Mr. Holmes was trying to get her a deal for minimal prison time and rehabilitation.”

Clara had begun to breathe hard, and she scooted back into her chair, her hands clenching into tight fists. “I … I lost it. I couldn’t scream; my voice was still so ragged, so ravaged, after she choked me. I did my best to shout, and I think that may be what finally forced her to pay attention. I don’t remember exactly what I said, but I told her she didn’t deserve a deal, that if there was a God that she’d go to prison for the rest of her fucking life. I knew…” Clara gasped and swallowed, took a few deep, choppy breaths in an attempt to steady herself, “I knew it wasn’t the damned drugs. This had been coming for a while, escalating. She meant to kill me, and I told her I had pictures of what she’d done to me and my medical records. I told her that I was through with protecting her, and I was going to testify, and if it was in my power I’d make sure they strung her up at the court house,” Clara rambled to a choked halt and struggled visibly to compose herself.

“Did you read those, John?” she asked, her voice breaking on her hitching breaths. “The ones from Bart’s,” she clarified. “Since the head injury, I’ve started having massive seizures. I’m forty-one years old, and I’ve had to move back in with my parents because I can’t be alone. I’ve lost my driver’s license, and it’s very likely that I’ll be like this for the rest of my life, according to the neurologists. Apparently, once you start having grand mal seizures, especially as an adult, they generally don’t go away; they just get worse. I’ve lost everything because of her, my job, my independence, my health, my freedom…all because she couldn’t bear to think that she didn’t own me anymore.”

John looked at Sherlock quickly before he slid out of the chair to kneel by Clara’s chair. “I’m so sorry,” he murmured as he caught her as she pitched forward to sob on his neck.

“She asked what she could do,” Clara sobbed openly now, pressing her damp face against her brother-in-law’s sodden shoulder. “And I told her I didn’t care…that I didn’t fucking care if she lived or died. I left her like that. My last words to her,” Clara said softly as she sat back and sniffled, rubbing the now soaked tissue over her face.

Sherlock chose that moment to glide in from the bathroom and handed her a warm, damp flannel, which she took with a forced, grateful smile. John wasn’t sure when Sherlock had left, but he shot the other man a quick nod of appreciation. Clara cleaned the streaked make up off her face and looked absently at the cloth, now smeared with mascara, foundation and rouge, the yellowing bruises on her face no longer concealed.

“I’m sorry, John,” Clara whispered.

John looked at her helplessly.

“It’s not your fault,” Sherlock said decisively. “Harriet made her own choice. She made choices throughout her entire adult life that led to this point and made this last choice when she couldn’t live with the consequences of her prior choices. She considered what she had done and passed judgment on herself. I am an addict, and if I had hurt John in this manner or Rosie, I probably would have done the same,” Sherlock concluded evenly. “If you’ll excuse me,” he said sharply and exited, taking the stairs two at a time, the door to Baker Street closed resoundingly behind him.

John looked at Clara and offered her a fond, sad smile. “Sherlock’s right. He usually is, but never tell him I said so,” John said as his smile widened. “This isn’t your fault. This was all on Harry, all of it. I hope, at the very least, you can find some peace now,” he offered with a tremulous note to his voice.

She offered a soft smile, picked up her papers and climbed carefully down the stairs. John hailed a cab for her and watched as it rounded the corner and disappeared before climbing the steps back to his flat, slower this time, shaking his head mutely when Mrs. Hudson tried to coax him in for a cuppa.

He collapsed on the sofa, tugged the old afghan off the back and allowed himself a good cry, one that he hadn’t permitted himself at the funeral home. He cried for his sister, for the lost potential, for the sweet, mischievous girl he had known, for the talented and tortured artist she became, and for everything in between. He cried for the relationship that he had wanted but never had with her; he cried for the pain she had suffered when she came out; he cried for the damage she had done to herself and others, the lost opportunities she had squandered, and when he was cried out, he finally drifted into an exhausted, restful sleep. He wasn’t sure how long he had been asleep when he heard Sherlock enter the flat and close the door softly. It was dark; he knew that much immediately, so it must have been at least four hours.

“Where’ve you been?” he rasped out, embarrassed to realize that his voice still sounded hoarse from his earlier cry. He cleared his throat trying to clear the pieces of broken glass out of his larynx.

“A few places actually,” Sherlock said as he quickly started a fire. John realized the other man was shivering and that he must have dashed out so quickly that he’d left his coat behind.

“C’mere,” John offered as he sat up and lifted a corner of the afghan. Sherlock wasted no time in settling himself against John’s warmth and tucking the afghan around himself. John shivered.

“You’re chilled to the bone,” he whispered against the cold fabric and chilled flesh of Sherlock’s left shoulder.

“Mmmmm,” Sherlock murmured in agreement or appreciation of the warmth John wasn’t sure.

“So what did a few places entail?” he asked.

“I felt an immediate need to go to The Diogenes Club.”

John stiffened instantly.

“Not the brothel,” Sherlock said, immediately sensing John’s distress. “I went to see Mycroft.”

John relaxed fractionally. A visit to Mycroft was usually a hostile proposition at best. The two brothers could never remain civil for long.

“Why?” John asked curiously.

“You asked me to, remember? We clearly needed to do more for Clara than the counseling and medical care she is currently receiving. I have secured Mycroft’s assistance in getting a service animal for Clara. It will allow her to reclaim some of her independence, and he is going to make sure Anthea finds her some sort of flat share situation so she can remain in London and live, at least, semi-autonomously. He has also found himself in need of a part time secretary, which will become a full time secretarial position as soon as Clara is medically able to work the additional hours. I have no doubts she can pass the background checks. She seems the loyal sort.”

“Thank you,” John breathed softly. He felt Sherlock drop an arm around his shoulders, and he gladly pressed his face into Sherlock’s chest and let himself lean on the other man’s strength for just a little while.

“Since Stamford is the medical director at Bart’s, I went to see him next. He is now aware of the fact that not all visitors are signing in before visiting a patient. I’m not sure how much he can do to feasibly correct the situation, but visitor logs are now, for all intents and purposes, worthless as evidence,” Sherlock sneered slightly, and John knew that the other man was irritated at both the situation and himself for having relied on incomplete and misleading evidence.

“My last stop was Lestrade. He did a shite job in obtaining Clara’s medical information. He needs to do much better in future.”

John sighed. “In Lestrade’s defense, she did actively try to conceal it—even went so far as to use her friend’s medical card. And, I know of several doctors who are known to treat victims of domestic violence off the record. They’re terrified that their abusers will kill them if there’s a record of the abuse, so they use fake identities, lie about the injuries….”

Sherlock huffed in frustration. “No physician should ever be a party to such collusion,” he ground out. “If law enforcement cannot rely on accurate medical records…”

“Think about the alternative for a minute…a multitude of victims who don’t ever seek treatment at all because they’re too afraid to reveal the abuse.”

Sherlock sighed heavily and John knew that Sherlock had just tacitly conceded the point, albeit very unwillingly.

“Do you need me?” Sherlock asked abruptly.

“Excuse me?” John asked, the segue to this strange conversation almost enough to give him whiplash.

“Lestrade said that I needed to get my, and I quote, “skinny arse home. John needs you now. His sister’s just died for fuck’s sake.” So, do you need me?”

John stared at Sherlock, who looked like some strange Fae changeling by firelight and burst out laughing.

Sherlock stared at him and cocked an eyebrow in obvious confusion.

“I haven’t lost my mind,” John wheezed, still chuckling. “Just the way you said that…It was hysterical,” John concluded on a soft laugh.

Sherlock shrugged. “Not really my area, you know. I’m doing the best I can,” he said arrogantly, and to John’s tired eyes he seemed like nothing so much as a petulant six year old.

“Sherlock,” John said softly, sincerely, “I will always need you. I’m glad you tried so hard to help Clara, but I’m also glad you’re here now.”

“Lestrade was right, wasn’t he? I shouldn’t have left you here alone.”

John shrugged. “In future after a traumatic event, it would probably be better if you asked before you left, but I’m a bit glad you left today. I needed to cry for Harry, and I’m not sure I could have done that with you here. I know I did it before, but I was morbidly embarrassed about it afterwards. I’ve still got a few hang ups, one of them being that a man doesn’t cry—especially not in front of another man. Sorry,” John muttered.

“Don’t mention it,” Sherlock murmured, and John had the distinct impression that the other man really meant it, literally. In Sherlock world the less said about emotions, the better.

Things like this made John hesitant. He still hadn’t told Sherlock he loved him. This was part of the reason why.

The other part was guilt. He loved Sherlock and had loved the other man for a very long time. Once Dr. Wallace had forced him to face his feelings, he had come to realize that he had dated numerous women and even gotten married while in love with Sherlock. The guilt gnawed at him. Silently he berated himself for being so out of touch with his own feelings that he could do something like that. It was unfair to everyone involved.

It made him wonder, again, if Mary had known. If she hadn’t, she wasn’t the intelligent, clever woman he had known her to be. If she did, and she had married him anyway, well, that realization brought its own emotional grenades to this little shooting war.

“Do you need me, John?” Sherlock whispered, and as John tipped his head back to look closely at Sherlock as it was unlike the detective to repeat himself, the other man took immediate advantage and fastened soft lips to John’s throat.

“Mmmmm…yes,” John moaned softly into the gentle, sucking kisses, realizing immediately that while Sherlock had used the same words, the nuances were different, creating an entirely different question. It dawned on him vaguely as Sherlock sent questing fingers under his jumper that it had been close to a week since Big Brain and The Hard Drive had had their necessary re-boots. While John had been incredibly stressed this past week with funeral arrangements and such, physical intimacy between the two of them had been mostly non-existent. He was almost surprised, in a way, to realize that he needed this as much as Sherlock did, maybe more.

“What do you want?” Sherlock whispered against the damp skin he was currently laving with his tongue, making John shiver in his arms. The hot tongue continued up, along the jaw line and began to probe delicately at an ear lobe.

“Anything,” he gasped nearly breathless. “Everything.” John battled a moment of confusion and rejection as he felt Sherlock pull back. And then he felt like some sort of exotic butterfly pinned to a wax palette by Sherlock’s fathomless Caribbean blue-green eyes as the detective searched his face for something. John felt his face flush vermilion, but he held the other man’s eyes albeit awkwardly. In that moment, it dawned on him what he had offered. He could pretend to misunderstand that probing gaze, but what would be the point? He wanted it; Sherlock knew John better than John knew himself—Sherlock had to know what he wanted. They had been headed to this place since the first night they had been intimate.

Reaching a decision, John nodded. “Everything,” he reaffirmed. “Take me to bed, Sherlock. Fuck me.”

 

_Excerpt from the private Blog of John Watson_

_My sister is dead. I haven’t been able to write for some days now because I knew that seeing those words would make it real somehow—not just a nightmare, but real to me in a way that even the funeral wasn’t. I’m feeling so alone now. My parents are dead; my sister is dead. I’m the last of the Watson family line, except for Rosie. I know it isn’t true; I’m not truly alone, but it’s hard to shake the feeling when the entire family you grew up with is gone._

_This shouldn’t have happened, but it did. My sister committed suicide. She was going to be transferred to the prison hospital, and knowing that, knowing what she’d done to Clara, she passed sentence on herself. She got one of the nurses to uncuff her and take her to the shower. All she needed was a few minutes alone. She ripped her hospital gown into strips, tied the pieces together with her teeth and her remaining hand and hung herself from the shower hoist bar—the one they use to transfer obese and quadriplegic post op patients into the shower. I haven’t been to church in years, but it’s almost impossible to silence the part of my mind that keeps screaming “mortal sin.”_

_Because of the suicide, I wasn’t able to bury Harry in the family plot at St. Robert’s. Not that I think that would ever have been what she wanted. She spent her life trying to put as much distance between herself and our narrow-minded, judgmental parents as possible. Why would she have wanted anything different in death? In the end, I had her cremated. I’ll spread the ashes somewhere free and open and beautiful…far away from the graves of my parents and all of the other things and people that hurt Harry in this life. Perhaps in death she can find some joy and happiness, at last released from the torture of this life, an existence she was simply unable to cope with._

_People keep suggesting that I should sue for negligence; Mrs. Hudson has been the most vocal about it. I just can’t do that. Harry was determined to die. If she hadn’t hung herself at Bart’s, she would have probably thrown herself in front of a bus if she could have during the prison transfer. I think she’s been trying to kill herself for years, and when the alcohol wasn’t fast enough, she added in the heroin. The conclusion was inevitable; only the means to the destination varied. Sherlock helped me realize that. He’s probably the sole reason I can lay claim to still having a shred of sanity left. I was so unprepared for this so soon after Mary’s death._

_He’s dragged me all over London after a serial bomber over the last ten days—three foot chases, two stake outs, five nights with no sleep, and one shootout later, we got them. Or I should say, Lestrade and NSY got them. Sherlock, mad genius that he is, actually let me call in reinforcements. Sometimes I think The Work is just as important to my sanity as it is to his._

_Speaking of sanity…anyone who knows me would think I’d gone completely round the twist if I uttered these words out loud: Sherlock made love to me. I basically told him flat out to fuck me. Well, he kind of did, and he didn’t. Sherlock made love to me, slowly, gently, and fuck it all…I had no idea. We’ve been having sex for months. And it’s good; it’s very, very good. And I don’t know if it wasn’t there before, or if I just didn’t let myself feel it…the emotions, the nearly overwhelming intimacy. I suspect it was the latter._

_After all, I’ve been struggling so much with loving Sherlock, not just being in love with a man but all of the guilt that goes part and parcel with it—like I’m somehow being unfaithful to Mary (even though she’s dead), like I somehow betrayed Mary in marrying her when any idiot could see I was in love with Sherlock all along (except, apparently, me), and as if I am a selfish man and a bad father for dividing my focus between Rosie, work, and Sherlock. I know Dr. Wallace is right—that a healthy balance is absolutely essential; otherwise I would almost definitely come to resent Rosie, work or Sherlock. I have to take care of myself first or I will be absolutely useless to anyone or anything else, but knowing that fact and reconciling with it emotionally are two very different propositions. No one can do guilt quite like those of us raised Catholic. Still, I need to work on letting it go. I’d hazard a guess that this won’t be quite as difficult of a challenge as some of the other stuff I’ve worked on with Dr. Wallace simply because…well, I… enjoyed it, more than enjoyed it really._

_I’ve always liked sex—a lot. There’s a reason the other guys in my army unit stuck me with the moniker Three Continents Watson. But, the sheer intimacy of sex with someone you love is simply beyond words, and, for me…well, the intense emotional and physical connection that happened with Sherlock… I had no idea that it would be so incredibly intimate, so intensely profound to allow someone inside my body…the level of trust that takes. For the first time, I think I have some understanding of why most women are reticent to engage in casual sex. Coupled with the intensity of the orgasm—the physical and emotional pleasure is simply indescribable._

_I realize I’m rambling and repeating myself, but I don’t seem to have the words to express the extreme depth of my feelings. But, I’m going to have to find them. I’m setting myself a deadline…Christmas. On or before Christmas, I will tell Sherlock that I love him._


	8. 8

**CHAPTER 8**

**The Scientific Method**

**Step 5: Analyze the Data**

It was four days before Christmas, and John found himself shifting silently, albeit a bit awkwardly, from foot to foot as his colleague, Dr. Amanda Winston, ogled the tasteful, if still somewhat glitzy, display in the Tiffany’s shop window.

John liked Amanda, but her certainty that her boyfriend was going to propose on Christmas was beginning to wear thin, and the closer Christmas drew, the more unintentionally obnoxious she became about the whole thing. Going out to lunch with her was becoming increasingly similar to oral surgery without anaesthesia.

“Oh, look at that one,” she gushed, pointing to an engagement ring, one with a small diamond bezel set into a moderately thick platinum band. Because of her profession, and the need to frequently wear latex gloves, she had resigned herself to a simple style of ring with no raised stones to catch, but that didn’t curb her enthusiasm one bit.

“It’s called an etoile band,” she informed John, eyes never leaving the twinkling display. “I’ve dropped hints. I’m hoping for a Tiffany etoile band if Connor wants to go with a silver coloured metal or a Cartier ellipse ring if he chooses gold. I like both, so it really doesn’t matter which he chooses.”

John sighed and looked anywhere but in the Tiffany’s display window. Amanda chuckled as she turned from the display.

“Why, John, I’d think you’d be a bit more enthused.” She eyed him shrewdly, a knowing smirk gracing the rose blush of her lipstick tinted smile. “After all, with the way you talk about Sherlock, it’s only a matter of time, isn’t it?” She quirked an eyebrow at him archly before beginning the short walk back to the clinic, pretending not to see John’s mouth hanging open agape at her.

***********

John sighed tiredly and signed the last of the charts for the evening, laying his pen down on his desk blotter and rubbing his slightly numbed eyeballs. For a secret government clinic that ostensibly wanted no paper trail to exist, there was a hell of a lot of paperwork involved.

John rubbed idly at his left hand, staring at the pale, almost invisible indentation left by his wedding band, unable to purge Amanda’s words from his mind. He had ceased wearing the simple gold band months ago, since he had begun sleeping with Sherlock actually, and the skin was nearly back to normal, back to its original unmarked state. He could just see the barest of outlines. In another month, it would be gone—a pristine palette on which to write a new chapter of his life if he wanted to.

Was he really ready to replace that ring with another? When the immediate and resounding answer his heart supplied was not a definite “NO” but a tentative “Maybe Soon,” he sighed again. That response should have terrified him for more reasons than one; it did not. There was a time when his colleagues even suspecting that he was seeing another man—romantically—would have terrified him to the point of emotionally crippling him. Now, it made him blush…stammer a little and look down at the floor. In short, it made him act like a fifteen year old with a crush; he thought that was infinitely better than the sense of deep, homophobic shame he had felt just three months ago. He made a mental note to report this as progress to Dr. Wallace.

He glanced at the blinking cursor on his open laptop. He quickly closed out of Zachary Prince’s medical record and opened the browser. It couldn’t hurt to look, right? An hour later, he had found what he sought on the website of a custom jewelry company in Dublin, Ireland and bookmarked the page. He stared at the magnified picture of the perfect ring; it was a simple, flat band done in platinum, 7mm wide with an 18k yellow gold Claddagh etched into sharp relief running through the center of the band. The heart could be flush set in the quarter carat stone of the purchaser’s choice, or if no stone was desired, platinum or gold. And the purchaser also had the option of having the tiny crown set with micropavé diamonds. It was the ultimate representation of himself and Sherlock: partners, friends, and lovers.

The designer had even set up a table relating what the stones meant in common folklore. John was torn between emerald—love and rebirth, diamond—eternal love and healing, and sapphire—a promise of honesty, loyalty and trust. He finally decided on a sapphire heart with the micropavé diamonds in the crown; without words, this elegant band said all he needed to say about how he felt about Sherlock Holmes. The website allowed him to “create” and save the ring. He looked at it again, whispered “soon,” and minimized it to his tray.

He whistled jauntily as he exited the government center building and hailed a cab.

Later that evening long, pale, manicured fingers clicked open John Watson’s minimized google chrome icon. Mycroft Holmes settled himself heavily into John Watson’s desk chair as a sapphire wedding ring twinkled madly from the display, and he silently shook his head on a sigh.

“Oh brother mine…what have you gotten yourself into now?”

* * * * * * * * *

John shifted nervously as he waited for Sherlock to uncork the bottle of Riesling John had purchased to pair with the large platter of fruits and hors d'oeuvres they were about to enjoy, many of which were Sherlock’s particular favorites.

It was almost ten o’clock on Christmas Eve, and John had persuaded the recalcitrant consulting detective to have a bit of a romantic evening in. Sherlock had given in with ill grace, a grimace of distaste and a sulking scowl on his face, but he was at least making a minimal attempt to get into the spirit of the holidays; his only other option had been to roust Lestrade from his bed and demand a case, which had, in fact, been Sherlock’s Plan A for the evening.

It had taken John and Nora nearly an hour to talk Sherlock out of his nighttime reconnaissance mission to the DI’s home, and John silently cursed the fact that Sherlock hadn’t had an interesting case in nearly two weeks. Nora and Rosie had long since retired, exhausted after a long day of Christmas preparations, and John suspected Sherlock’s slowly improving mood was because the promise of the wine and food was starting to look appealing since Sherlock hadn’t eaten since that morning, if you could call a half of a piece of dry toast food.

Not for the first time, John wondered, given Sherlock’s rather testy mood, if this wasn’t an ill-timed debacle waiting to happen, but he was, if nothing else, a man of his word. And, despite the fact that his promise was only to himself, it was still a promise, and he would carry it through. Come hell or high water, he was going to tell Sherlock tonight that he loved him.

* * * * * * * * *

John shivered violently as he felt a fresh wave of tears begin to freeze to his lashes and cheeks. His breath gusted in frozen white clouds in front of his face, and he noticed belatedly that at some point it had begun to snow. There was a thick coating overlaying the path and the fountain.

He wished he had had the common sense to put on his coat, or at least to grab his wallet and keys before he stormed out of the flat. He shivered again and tucked his hands tighter into his arm pits as the snow began to fall more thickly. Midnight. He heard the distant bells of St. James Church as they began to peal, signaling the arrival of Christmas. John knew he should trudge out into the snow and make his way back to the flat, but he was, if not comfortable on the park bench, at least content enough.

He was even starting to feel less cold, maybe even a tad warm. He knew that was an illusion, that hypothermia was likely beginning to set in, but he also found that he didn’t much care. He simply couldn’t face Sherlock at the moment. Of all the scenarios to have played out in his head over the last several weeks, the events that occurred this evening…well, it had never occurred to him that Sherlock didn’t love him, at least a little bit.

As he hunched lower and debated the relative merits of forcing himself into some sort of physical activity in order to get warm, he was startled out of his reverie by a thick blanket being thrown over his shoulders. He idly wondered which of the charities was passing out blankets tonight of all nights and silently blessed their kindness.

As he turned to thank his erstwhile benefactor, the words choked in his throat as he met the blue-grey eyes of Mycroft Holmes.

“Nothing better to do than watch the CCTV cameras on Christmas morning, Mycroft?” John asked bitterly, drawing the warm blanket tighter around his shoulders nevertheless, unwilling to look a gift horse in the mouth.

Mycroft wisely chose not to reply to the snide jibe, and tucked his arm and shoulder under John’s. “Come with me, Dr. Watson,” he said firmly, tone brooking no argument as he pulled the smaller man to his feet. “We need to get you warm before frostbite sets in.”

John made no argument, clumsily following along on stiffly frozen joints until he was deposited into the back of Mycroft’s car. Two sharp raps to the dividing glass, and John felt the strongly purring engine pull smoothly into the light traffic around the square. The warmth was both a blessed relief and a curse as extremities previously numbed by the cold began to ache with sharp, tingling needles as blood flow was restored.

Mycroft pulled out a large thermos, and John could see the billow of steam and smell the rich chocolate as Mycroft poured the hot cocoa into a mug and pressed it into his chilled hands.

“Drink that,” Mycroft demanded in a voice that brooked no arguments. When John had burned his lips and tongue drinking down that cupful and one more after that, Mycroft sighed and pulled out a bottle of Irish whiskey, pouring John and himself both a healthy slug of the liquor into the cocoa mugs.

“What happened, John?” Mycroft asked at last.

John didn’t bother to turn his head, watching the lights of the shopping district twinkling merrily as the car sped by on its tour of London proper.

“You were wrong. Sherlock doesn’t love me. Not sure about Rosie. I didn’t ask,” John said dully, drinking down another gulp of the smooth, very expensive whiskey and holding his cup out blindly toward Mycroft awaiting a refill.

He continued to watch the lights recede into the distance as they left downtown and headed into one of the residential districts.

“He told you this?” Mycroft asked, eyes narrowed as he attempted to get to the crucial events of earlier that evening.

John shrugged, numb. “Yeah. I told him that I’m in love with him. I waited for like five minutes while he stared at me blankly; he finally said “Oh, I see….” And then he asked me if I wanted another glass of wine. I told him “no” and asked him if he was in love with me too…even just a little. He looked at me like I’d grown a second head and told me that “no” he wasn’t “in love with me and had no intentions ever of being in love with anybody,”” John said in a monotone voice devoid of emotion or inflection. “If you could, uhmmm… loan me a few quid and drop me at a hotel somewhere, I’d appreciate it. I don’t want to face Sherlock right now. I’ll start looking for another place to live after Boxing Day.”

“Don’t you think you’re being a bit hasty, John? Surely you two can talk this out.”

“Talk what out, exactly, Mycroft?” John challenged sharply, turning from the window for the first time to face the other man. “Sherlock meant what he said; even a blind man could have seen it. I won’t be some pity fuck for Sherlock to use and discard. I know how you Holmes boys talk about love and sentiment, like it’s dog shite you’ve scraped off the bottoms of your shoes, but I deserve better than this. At the very least I deserve someone who loves me back,” John said hotly, for the first time a barely contained fury in his voice.

“John, do you know why I came after you tonight?”

When John had shrugged and shook his head, Mycroft continued. “It was because Sherlock sent me. He called me…not texted me —called me. He was as close to hysterical as I’ve ever heard him. You left with no coat, no keys, no phone, no wallet, no money and the temperatures dropping to well below zero tonight. When you didn’t come back inside after a few minutes and Sherlock had called everyone in your phone directory, he called me and demanded I use my resources to locate you. He offered me anything I wanted just to find you and make sure you were safe. _Anything_. Does that sound like the behavior of a man who doesn’t love you?” Mycroft asked softly.

John swallowed but said nothing.

Mycroft sighed. “One last time. One last time,” he repeated, “I’m going to interfere in yours and Sherlock’s relationship.” Mycroft settled back into the warm, overstuffed leather of the seat and looked blankly at the black dividing glass ahead of him. “John, have you ever studied Differential Equations or Matter and Energy States or any sort of Theoretical Astrophysics?”

“You know I haven’t,” John retorted on a resigned sigh. “You know everything about me, don’t you?” John said snidely.

Mycroft ignored him and continued as if John had not spoken. “One of the first things the professors teach you is to state your assumptions and define your terms.”

John frowned, uncertain where this was going. “Make your point or let me out of the car,” he demanded.

Mycroft smiled a cold smile. “Did you know that time runs differently in space than it does on earth? That space time is affected by gravity such that time slows in direct proportion to gravity?”

John arched an eyebrow, crossed his arms and settled back into the seat, drawing the blanket snugly around him despite being almost overly warm at this point.

“This is the reason that GPS satellites and computers re-calibrate almost constantly. So, if one were repairing a satellite orbiting the earth, one would have to consider that time runs slower on earth than in space. Likewise, if one were making calculations where weight was a factor—as opposed to mass—the calculations would be different on the surface of Mars as opposed to the surface of the moon or on the International Space Station. What we commonly think of as universal constants change, depending on one’s location and perspective.”

“What the fuck does this have to do with me and Sherlock?” John asked belligerently. He was no longer cold, but he ached from the prolonged chill. He was tired, sleep deprived, and heart sore in addition to having been on an emotional roller coaster earlier that evening. The euphoria of telling someone you loved them for the first time had turned into a raw, aching, open wound, and Mycroft’s attempt to fill the quiet with scientific ramblings was too much of a reminder of Sherlock just then.

“Simply this, John. Did you ever bother to define your terms with Sherlock? Did you ever state your assumptions?”

“What???” John asked incredulously. “You mean love? Everyone knows what love is.”

“Do they?” Mycroft asked softly. “Does Sherlock?” he asked more to the point. “Did you ever tell him what the term “in love” means to you? Did you ever ask him what it means to him? Because John, the man who called me tonight ready to turn London upside down for you most definitely loves you.”

John pondered this for a moment as he felt the car glide to a smooth stop.

“Do you really, honestly, think that Sherlock loves me?” John whispered at last, searching Mycroft’s face for signs of deception.

“Why don’t you go in and find out?” Mycroft asked silkily, and with that John found himself standing on the stoop at 221 Baker Street as he watched Mycroft’s long, black limousine disappear into the steadily falling snow.


	9. 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In honor of my birthday on Sunday, my gift to you is the final 2 chapters of this story. My thanks to those of you who stuck with me through this journey, watching John and Sherlock grow and become men who could succeed in a committed relationship. I hope you find the conclusion most satisfactory.

**CHAPTER 9**

**The Scientific Method**

**Step 6: Reach A Conclusion**

 

“John,” Sherlock called frantically, as he rushed down the steps and hustled John, still clutching Mycroft’s plaid, micro plush blanket around his shoulders, up the stairs and into the flat proper.

Sherlock looked as haggard as John had ever seen him. Worry lines were etched deeply around his eyes and mouth; he was wearing heavy clothes that were literally covered with snow and melted snow, and his red, chapped hands trembled with cold or nerves, John couldn’t be sure which. John was no genius of deductive reasoning, but he was fairly certain that Sherlock had been out on foot searching the streets for him.

It was a testament to Sherlock’s anxiety levels that he hadn’t been able to deduce John’s location; or, perhaps it was John who had behaved so far out of character that he had simply defied all logic. John admitted to himself that if he had been thinking at least semi-rationally, he would have gone to one of the pubs or coffeehouses where the owners knew him and would let him run a tab while sitting in a back corner somewhere and at least keep warm.

He sighed as he sank down on the sofa and watched Sherlock awkwardly prepare tea. John snorted softly, unsure if he was irritated or amused. After the events of the last few hours, the image of a roaring fire and Sherlock preparing tea was almost surreal in its banal domesticity.

Hands clutched tightly around his chipped blue mug, he finally asked on a sigh, “Do you want me to move out?”

Sherlock paused in the act of bringing his own mug to his lips and set the heavy, ceramic mug on the coffee table.

“No, why would I want that?” he asked softly, not meeting John’s eyes.

John let out a soft grunt of frustration.

“Look, Sherlock, regardless of what Mycroft says, I can’t do this with you. If you don’t love me, I can’t stay here. It hurts too much. I deserve to be loved back. I had that with Mary, and I’m not willing to settle for less, even if it means being alone. Whatever it is you think we are…fuck buddies or friends with benefits…it’s just not enough. It’ll never be enough.”

Sherlock’s eyes had narrowed shrewdly at the mention of Mycroft’s name and remained squinted as if in deep concentration.

“And what exactly did Mycroft say?” Sherlock asked quietly.

“What does it matter at this point?” John asked tiredly, a tinge of irritation lacing his tone. “I bare my fucking soul to you, bleeding and raw thing that it is, and your takeaway is some obscure comment Mycroft made?”

“Just humor me, John. What precisely did Mycroft say?”

“A bunch of crap that makes no sense, Sherlock. I’m in no mood for this,” John said tiredly as he turned toward the stairs. “I’ll sleep upstairs in the spare room tonight, and I’ll start looking for another flat after Christmas.”

“John, please,” Sherlock begged. “What did Mycroft say?”

“Why do you want to know so badly?” John countered, treading water at the foot of the stairs, torn between emotional landmines—Sherlock and his own emotional upheaval.

“Mycroft is…more intelligent than I am,” Sherlock admitted with his teeth gritted. “If he saw a way to salvage this mess, then he’s very likely right.”

John swallowed hard, uncertain just how much, but knowing with unmitigated certainty that that admission had cost Sherlock dearly.

John turned and walked back to the sofa, sitting heavily as he stared at his shoes. “He said that you and I…that we had failed to define our terms and state our assumptions regarding love. So, I guess I’ll just ask: What do you think love is, Sherlock?”

The muscles around Sherlock’s eyes were twitching rapidly, the only physical indication that Sherlock’s brain was moving at light speed, in John’s considerable experience. At last those Caribbean blue green eyes came to rest on John’s face in a hard, penetrating stare.

“You said earlier that you were in love with me, correct?”

“Yes, that’s right,” John said.

“I assumed you used that term of phrase to delineate romantic love as opposed to fraternal or platonic love.”

“Yeah, okay, that’s fair. I don’t see much difference between telling someone you’re in love with them or that you just love them if it’s someone you have a sexual relationship with…same thing.”

John paused and studied Sherlock. Had Mycroft been right all along? “Sherlock, how do you define romantic love?” John asked softly, a hopeful note creeping into his voice.

Sherlock snorted. “Romantic love? Idiocy!” Sherlock exclaimed. “It’s a neurochemical response to external stimuli closely resembling a state of irrational infatuation and the inability to act in one’s own best interests. It’s best characterized by a failure to apply logic to any given situation or act in a manner consistent with one’s own well-being, and is marked by a chronic depreciation of one’s own self-worth and self-respect. In short, it’s a state of prolonged idiocy of the highest order. It’s a ridiculous societal construct employed to excuse self-destructive and selfish behavior that leaves nothing but misery and chaos in its wake.”

“Okaaay,” John said slowly, drawing out the two syllable word into four.

He fought back a sense of despair and asked the next logical question. In for a penny…in for a pound.

“And just how did you arrive at this definition?”

“Isn’t it self-evident? It’s all around us, John. Lestrade _loved_ his wife, and so he tolerated affair after affair, her ridiculous spending habits, and her clingy, selfish behavior. Clara _loved_ your sister and, therefore, failed to report physical abuse and intimidation, even going so far as to lie for her and cover up the abuse for years… **years** , John… as the injuries escalated until she nearly lost her life due to her _love_. Mary _loved_ you, and yet she put you, herself, and your unborn child in mortal peril by not making absolutely certain you knew what threats you were facing. She gave you a flash drive, John, **a flash drive**...instead of telling you, really preparing you, for what could be coming for you…for you and Rosie. How many cases have we had where people cheated for _love?  ..._ our very first case together, Watson... In a society where a grown man jumps up and down and across a sofa on national television like a demented pogo stick decrying his _love_ for a woman he barely knows, the ink hardly dry on his divorce papers… That is what society tells me _love_ really is, and it reinforces this definition on a daily basis. If that is _love_ , John, then no, I do not _love_ you. I will never lose my logical, rational mind to that extent. I will never tolerate being treated like yesterday’s rubbish or feign ignorance of betrayals and outright lies, nor will I ever treat you in that manner,” Sherlock finished tightly.

John swallowed harshly.

“Alright. May I ask what you do feel for me then?”

Sherlock studied him closely before answering. “I thought you knew. I have a vocabulary that’s more extensive than the average university doctoral graduate, and yet I don’t know that I have the words. John, I would kill for you.”

“You have,” John whispered as he thought about another Christmas and a bullet fired into the occipital region of one Charles Augustus Magnussen, blackmailer extraordinaire.

“I would die to keep you safe.”

“Done that too or damned close,” John said tightly.

“I would give you virtually anything you asked for: my money, my honor—such that it is--my help…, and I would do that confidently and without a second thought because I know you would never take advantage of me. I would…I did…am trying…to give up all illegal drugs for you—you and Rosie,” Sherlock trailed off as he studied John. “I care for you John…more than my words can express. I desire you. I had envisioned spending my life with you. Tell me what you want, and if it’s in my power to give it, I swear you’ll have it.”

John swallowed the lump in his throat three times before he could force air through his larynx.

“You love me, Sherlock,” John acknowledged softly. “No,” he interjected swiftly as he saw Sherlock readying himself for a blunt denial. “That’s love, Sherlock. That’s what love is supposed to be—not an excuse to lose your self-respect, to let people treat you like trash, to be selfish or take advantage. Love is caring for someone so much that you’re willing to sacrifice what you want for what they need. All of that other crap you described, well, some people call them toxic relationships, or infatuation, or co-dependence, or some other name, but what they are is really the same thing: a corruption of love. What you described is love, real love, walk through fire without blinking love; and in case you were wondering, that’s what I meant to tell you when I told you that I love you,” John said as he somewhat shyly extended his hand, relieved to feel Sherlock grasp it tightly.

And then, who pulled who he was never quite certain, but one of them pulled the other into a hug, and John could do nothing but hang on tightly as the tears threatened to spill over in his joy.

He was loved…loved as much in return as he loved.

“Where do we go from here?” Sherlock whispered softly against the fluffy hair on John’s crown, hair that had been recently snow saturated, dried on a borrowed blanket and now stood up in staticky tufts.

“How about bed?” John suggested. “I don’t know about you, but I’m exhausted. I feel like a dishrag that’s been put through the wringer one time too many and every fibre of my being is starting to fray. Nora and Rosie are gonna be up in a few hours, and if we don’t get some sleep, I think we’ll both drop. Besides, we have to be up by nine to get dinner started; we promised to host the Christmas party this year.”

Sherlock groaned. “Couldn’t we cancel?” he whined. “We could tell everyone that you have pneumonia and stay in bed for two days.”

“Come on,” John said as he tugged Sherlock to his feet and headed toward the bedroom after banking the fire and ensuring that the safety screen was firmly in place. “We’re not canceling,” John said decisively, “especially not at the last minute,” he said as the bedroom door closed. “Bed, sleep, now.”

Sherlock chuckled, stripped to his pants, and was asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow.

John lay awake a few more minutes, studying Sherlock’s moonlit profile and marveling in awe at how in love he was with this man and how close he had come to losing him.

“Thank you, Mycroft,” he whispered gratefully before falling into a deep, dreamless sleep.


	10. 10

**CHAPTER 10**

**The Scientific Method**

**Step 7: Communicate and Replicate the Results**

 

John groaned harshly as the alarm clock bleated its annoying and insistent reveille at 8:30am.

“C’mon, Sherlock,” he mumbled tiredly as he slung his legs over the side of the bed, suppressed a groan and sat up fully, leaned over and began fumbling for his jeans, hoping that they were somewhere within an arm span of the bed.

“No,” Sherlock whined as he pulled the duvet over his head and snuggled down, firmly ensconced in a cocoon of eiderdown and pillows.

John sighed and shivered in the cold morning air. He couldn’t see his breath, but he suspected it was a very near thing.

“You have to get up, Sherlock. You have to meet your parents’ train at 10:00.”

“Mycroft said he’d do it,” Sherlock mumbled sleepily.

“Fine,” John muttered as he succeeded in snagging his jeans with his left foot and dragging them toward the bed. “But you’re still gonna clean up the spare room you call a lab so they have somewhere decent to sleep tonight.”

“Unh unh,” Sherlock whined again. “They’re staying with Mycroft …more room, and they get their own bathroom.”

John gritted his teeth, in annoyance or to keep them from chattering he wasn’t quite sure.

“Well, then get up and help me get dinner on,” he said as he delivered a sharp slap to the vicinity of Sherlock’s arse, which, thanks to the thick duvet was really no more than a love pat.

A muffled squeak and a very cute, somewhat rumpled glare rewarded his efforts to get Sherlock’s attention, as the world’s only consulting detective flopped over onto his back, shoved the blankets down to his chest and fixed John with a death glare.

John suppressed a smile and the urge to tell Sherlock that his usual sneer would be far more effective if he didn’t look like a petulant six year-old with his hair in an abominable riot of curls and red marks across his left cheek from the wrinkles in the pillow case.

Sherlock pressed his lips into a pouty line, but John was unmoved, and at last Sherlock gusted a long, put upon sigh and muttered “fine,” but he made no move to get out of bed, just stared at John. “Roast beef or turkey this year?” he asked as he finally broke eye contact and pushed himself out of bed, locating his now wrinkled gray trousers and hastily pulling them on.

“Both,” John said airily as he tugged his still slightly damp jumper over his head.

“What?” Sherlock demanded incredulously. “Just how many people are coming this afternoon, anyway?”

“Well, let’s see. There’s you and me and Rosie, and Nora of course. All of her kids live in either Canada or Australia, and she hates to fly around the holidays. Can’t say I blame her, really. Uhmmmm…. Mycroft and your parents…Molly, Lestrade, Lestrade’s kids Eileen and Jennifer, Mrs. Hudson….and Clara. How many is that?”

“Thirteen,” Sherlock supplied testily. “Really, John. Are you sure we can’t squeeze a Christmas goose in there too? Why can’t we just give out gift baskets like other people, if we must celebrate this crass, commercial time of the year?” Sherlock grumbled as he bent down to locate his socks and came up with a square of paper folded into eights, the perfect size to fit into the hip pocket of a pair of jeans. “What’s this?”

“What?” John mumbled as he tried to put his socks on standing up and ended up hopping awkwardly and tumbling back onto the bed, sock half on and half off. “Fuck,” he muttered as he espied the wrinkled swatch of paper. “Don’t open that,” he said, a note of cajoling desperation creeping into his words.

Sherlock quirked an eyebrow, but constitutionally unable to let a mystery lie unopened, he did exactly as John expected.

“Why not? What is it?” Sherlock demanded curiously, holding the scrap of paper as if he were physically unable to release it.

John bit his lips nervously, his heart racing like it was literally going to break his ribs and beat itself out of his chest. What an inopportune time for things to fall out of his pocket; John was fairly certain at this point that the universe had it in for him. He debated briefly going back to bed, covering up his head and issuing a tacit “Fuck You” to said universe.

“I…it’s…uhmmm…it was…I thought maybe…for Christmas…if last night had gone according to plan…I was….”

“John, are you all right?”

John sighed as he finally pushed himself up off the bed and stood to face Sherlock, reaching out to pluck the slightly mangled paper from Sherlock’s fingers. He began unfolding the paper, holding it tightly to his chest making absolutely certain that Sherlock could not see the side with the ink on it.

“Last night…if things had gone the way I hoped…over the wine with the fire going… It was supposed to be romantic.”

“John, are you having a stroke? Is this some form of aphasia?” Sherlock asked, concern crinkling in the corners of his eyes, as he searched John’s countenance for other symptoms.

“Awww hell,” John muttered. “I was going to ask you to marry me,” he blurted in frustration, as he shoved the opened paper back into Sherlock’s hands, a paper on which he had printed a picture of the ring.

At some point, it had gotten damp and some of the ink had run but it was still recognizable, although no longer shiny and beautiful; it looked dull and a bit smeared like a watercolor run slightly amok.

Sherlock stared at John, mouth somewhat agape. At any other time, John would have preened a bit; he had actually managed to shock Sherlock Holmes into speechlessness, but now was not that time.

He sat heavily on the edge of the bed and scrubbed his hands across his eyes, feeling nothing so much as old, tired and empty.

John looked up a few moments later to see Sherlock silently tracing the blurred outline of the ring with his right index finger as he mouthed the words in the printout description.

“Sapphire,” he murmured softly…”honesty, loyalty and trust.”

“Look, Sherlock, you don’t have to…” John began, uncertain as to how he was going to end that sentence, but Sherlock interrupted swiftly.

“I’m not the man you think I am, John,” Sherlock said sadly as he moved to sit beside John, paper still clutched in his hand as the image of the ring taunted him silently.

John looked at him questioningly but said nothing as Sherlock struggled to find the words.

“Last night, you said that I am in love with you, by your definition of the term love. But, I’m not. I’m not the man you think I am. I haven’t always acted in your best interests, and I most certainly have not been honest, loyal or trustworthy.”

John swallowed hard. “What do you mean?”

“John, I initiated this relationship, set out to seduce you, not because it was at all in your best interests or what you needed but because it was what I needed. I was acting wholly with my own best interests in mind. I needed to keep you, you and Rosie, here with me, so I offered you sex. My motives from the outset were far from altruistic.”

“I know. Mycroft sort of told me. I’m a grown man, Sherlock; I went into this with my eyes wide open. I’m not so easily duped as you think.”

Sherlock glanced sideways at him before replying. “I didn’t give a thought to your needs or best interests when I sabotaged your attempts at dating other people or when I read your private blog.”

John laughed. “Yeah, took me longer than it should have to figure that out, but I’ve known about it for months.”

“When did you figure it out?” Sherlock asked curiously.

“Hmmmmm….endlessly horny and desperate, eh?” John asked with a raised brow. “I hope that isn’t what you really think of me, by the way. After you ruined all of my clothes on the night I intended to go to that dating mixer thing, I began to suspect. It wasn’t until after you got Lestrade to call me and sabotaged my date with Caitlyn that… well, that clinched it. One is a fluke, two is a coincidence, but three is a definite pattern. But I didn’t see the pattern and fully put it together until about a week or so after that. By that point, it was starting to sink in that I was in love with you and had been for a while, so I guess the fact that you were being a complete prick mattered less than it ordinarily would have in the grand scheme of things.”

“And the blog?” Sherlock prompted.

“Yeah, … I began to suspect a couple of days after you uhmmm… fingered my arse that first time. I figured you must have gotten the idea that I was open to it from my private blog. Either that or you read me way too well. I was never quite certain of that one until you admitted it just now. I know you can pretty much beat any password or security I install on my laptop, so I always knew you could do it; I was just never sure if you would do it.”

“Of course I would! Have you met me, Watson?” Sherlock replied haughtily before pausing for a long moment, “…but, I stopped,” Sherlock admitted softly. “I know some of the things I did were a bit not good, but I want you to know that I stopped. I stopped reading your private blog after the arse fingering, and I stopped trying to sabotage your dates after Caitlyn.”

“Sherlock, I didn’t have any other dates after Caitlyn.”

“I know, but I came to the realization that manipulating you, even if it got me what I wanted, it would ultimately hurt you when you found out that I had manipulated and deceived you. Regardless, I failed you.”

John smiled softly as he reached for Sherlock’s hand. “Hey,” he whispered as he knee bumped Sherlock’s leg twice in rapid succession. “You didn’t fail me. We’re all human; we all make mistakes. No one gets all of the love and relationship stuff right all of the time. The important thing is you learned from your mistakes, and you figured out how to be a better friend and partner because of them. That’s not a failure. It’s like when something accidentally explodes during one of your experiments but because of it you figure out how to get the right result the next time. Same thing here.”

Sherlock cocked his head slightly as he considered John’s words. Chemistry made sense to Sherlock in a way that life never would, but there was the very real chance that Sherlock [i.e. Big Brain] would take the analogy a bit too far.

“This does not mean you get to experiment on people, Sherlock—me in particular,” John stressed urgently, hopefully before Sherlock had formulated his first working hypothesis and devised a testing mechanism.

Sherlock smiled a slow, crafty smile. “Of course not, John.”

John looked suspiciously at Sherlock and wisely chose not to pursue this conversation any longer.

“Come on,” John said as he stood up and held out a hand to Sherlock.

Sherlock grasped his hand but didn’t otherwise move.

“Sherlock, it’s almost nine. We’ve gotta get a move on if we’re gonna get the food started on time,” John said as he gave a little tug forward.

Sherlock stared at John’s hand clasped tightly in his own, brow knitted and didn’t respond. He took two deep breaths in slow succession before John heard a soft “yes,” breathed out on a slow gust of air.

At first John thought it was agreement, and he was already mentally well into seasoning and stuffing the turkey when it occurred to him that Sherlock hadn’t moved. Not agreement then.

“Yes what, Sherlock?”

Sherlock pinned him with a steely blue green gaze, eyes going soft the longer he looked at John, thumb nervously beginning to massage John’s finger.

“Your earlier sentiment. Although you never formally asked the question, if you still desire to marry me, the answer is yes.”

John gasped quietly and felt his eyes widen to the size of dinner plates. A part of him had been secretly hoping that Sherlock had either forgotten or was willingly allowing John’s former admission to slide into the ether unaddressed—letting it die a quiet and natural death—yeah right, because that sounded so much like Sherlock. But, he certainly hadn’t expected to be handed the thing he most wanted, especially after coming to the earlier realization that the universe was out to get him.

At that moment he realized that Sherlock was still holding his left hand and that his thumb was caressing the base of John’s ring finger at exactly the position where a wedding ring would sit.

John nodded dumbly, not trusting his voice but using his current position to exert enough leverage against Sherlock’s seated body to shove the other man back against the bed, straddle him and kiss him breathless. It was another half hour before the two managed to slouch guiltily into the kitchen only to find that Nora was already elbow deep in stuffing the turkey.

* * * * * * * * *

Christmas went about the way John expected it would, with a few minor hiccups. Rosie enjoyed the wrapping paper far more than she enjoyed her gifts, and John kept having to pluck pieces of it out of her mouth as everyone cooed over her and took numerous pictures.

Christmas dinner was served an hour late, but Sherlock’s mother was positively delighted that it gave everyone a chance to talk longer and catch up. She was especially thrilled when Sherlock announced that he and John were engaged to be married, a move that startled John so much that he choked on the mouthful of mulled wine he had just drunk. John made a mental note to remind Sherlock that announcements regarding their relationship should be discussed and agreed to beforehand.

Mycroft smirked into his scotch, and when the furor began to die down, he leaned down to John and said softly but sincerely, “Well done, Dr. Watson…well done.” That was all he had to say on the subject.

Molly put on a brave face, but John could sense that a long held dream had just died for her. A few minutes later, John had one of his rare but inspired ideas; he excused himself from his conversation with Mrs. Hudson and went in search of Molly. He introduced Molly to Mycroft; knowing that they both had a particular interest in Renaissance literature, John nudged the conversation in that direction and then left them to their own devices.

If Molly couldn’t have one Holmes brother, perhaps she’d be just as happy with the other? Sherlock and Mycroft would never admit to it, but the fact of the matter was that the reason they could never get along for prolonged periods of time was because they were so alike it was frightening—Mycroft simply hid his condescension and boredom better, with impeccable manners and polite social conventions.

Sherlock tuned his violin quickly and played several Christmas carols and a few of his original pieces to the great delight of all. The party lasted long into the evening, and everyone seemed to quite enjoy themselves. The evening ended with an invitation from Mycroft for everyone to enjoy New Year’s Eve at his home. John, sensing an impending snippy retort from Sherlock, swiftly kissed him on the pretense of standing under the mistletoe and then promptly accepted Mycroft’s gracious invitation. Sherlock raised a snide eyebrow but mercifully kept his thoughts to himself.

John, always glad to see family come to visit, found himself grateful to see them go as well. He collapsed on the sofa next to Sherlock, surveyed the mess and announced they would clean it up tomorrow.

“Sherlock.”

“Hmmmm,” came the distracted reply.

John quirked an eyebrow as he took in the unfocused eyes and flushed cheeks of his lover.

“Just how many glasses of wine have you had?”

“Seven,” Sherlock replied airily and with a somewhat sloppy grin.

“Okaaay,” John replied with a grin.

“I’m not inebriated, if that’s what you’re thinking … just … relaxed,” Sherlock said as he settled back against the cushions and closed his eyes.

“Well, if that’s the case, I have a question for you. Something’s been bothering me.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. John silently marveled at his ability to do that with his eyes closed.

“Okay, right then. I know you stopped reading my blog sometime in early November, but I know I mentioned in several posts prior to that that I was trying to work up the nerve to tell you that I love you.”

“Was there a question in there, Watson?”

“I guess I was wondering why things went so badly when I told you, if you knew it was coming, I mean.”

“Lack of specifity,” Sherlock said succinctly. “You were writing that blog for yourself, so you failed to specify the degree of emotional baggage, for lack of a better term, that you had invested in the word as well as the fact that you expected the sentiment to be reciprocated to some degree. From reading your blog, I knew it was only important to you that you say it, and you hoped the sentiment would be returned; you never conveyed the tacit expectations and emotional validation you had invested in the ritual.”

John sighed, as he was forcefully reminded once again that his very literal lover was about as emotionally empathetic as a potato; off and on, he had lived with the mad genius for nearly three years. He should know well what he was getting himself into.

“You’re right,” he conceded. “You had no way of knowing what it meant to me. Let’s turn in. I don’t know about you, but I’m beat.”

 

_Excerpt from the private Blog of John Watson_

 

_*****Sherlock, Don’t Read This*****_

 

_I ordered The Ring the day after Christmas and paid an exorbitant fee to have it done in a rush. It’s currently, as the saying goes, burning a hole in my pocket. I want to slip it on his finger at midnight on New Year’s Day. I know it’s a sentimental gesture, but it’s important to me to begin the New Year re-affirming my commitment to Sherlock and to our relationship. I know he’ll take it off immediately afterwards, and it will sit in its box until the wedding, but it’s still important to me._

_I ordered a matching band for myself without the rush, and at Sherlock’s insistence, sent him the link so he could pay for it. Who would have guessed he wanted to go traditional—the millionaire who makes me pay for take away and taxis? We haven’t discussed setting the wedding date yet, but I would really like to get married on 1/29. I know that won’t give us much time to plan, but neither Sherlock nor I want anything extravagant. Sherlock will undoubtedly call me a sentimental idiot, but it’s the anniversary of the day when we first met._

_Immediately afterwards, in keeping with the firsts theme, I expect him to suggest we get married in St. Bart’s morgue since that’s where we first met._

_I can’t believe I’m about to get married again. I’ll undoubtedly take a lot of flak for this, as Mary hasn’t been dead for a year yet, but when you know, you know. I take some small comfort in the fact that she would want me to move on and be happy. There are still so many things I wish I could ask her…things I’ll never know._

_I do know I’m lucky enough to have found love twice in my life, and I swear I won’t squander this second chance. I made so many mistakes before, including an emotional affair… I won’t make the same mistakes again, and I will do my best to make Sherlock happy for the rest of our lives. I have the unshakable feeling that he is it for me._

_Speaking of happy, Sherlock is ecstatic. Lestrade texted with a case yesterday morning, and although it’s only a serial robbery, it’s better than nothing._

_A bored Sherlock is an incredibly dangerous Sherlock._

_At least he has been using his time somewhat productively. Rosie’s college fund has never looked better._

_Our other friends/family are faring pretty well. Clara is sharing a flat with another assistant in Mycroft’s office and now has her service animal, a golden retriever named Biscuit. Biscuit is sensitive to neuro chemical changes in Clara’s body and is able to warn her of an impending seizure, which are now fairly rare thanks to a strict regimen of diet, moderate exercise, Topamax and an experimental drug that’s so hush hush I’m not even supposed to know it exists. Clara is starting to get some of her confidence back, and I recently passed her one of Dr. Wallace’s business cards. She has a lot of guilt that she’s carrying around. Although no one else blames her in any way for Harry’s death, she blames herself. I think he can really help her, if she’s open to it._

_I can’t help thinking about that time I called Sherlock a machine just before he ‘died’ to save my life. It really hits home, and I am grateful every day that I got the chance to do it again—that Sherlock wasn’t really dead, and I had the opportunity to tell him that I love him. I hope to spend every day doing just that. I need to make sure he knows that even when we’re having a row like two wet tomcats. I also need to make sure that Rosie, and Nora, and Mrs. Hudson and everyone else in this strange little family we’ve made for ourselves knows that as well._

_Family is so much more than the people who gave birth to you, more than the people you grow up with... I’ve heard it said that family are the people who won’t ever turn you away in a time of need. I am so glad to have found that._

_I will always wonder if Harry died feeling alone and unloved…if my disapproval of her life choices translated, in her mind, into disapproval of her as a person. It’s too late for me to make amends to Harry, but I will do a better job in future of making my family feel loved._

_So, instead of making some ridiculous New Year’s Resolution that I’ll break before Easter, that’s my vow for this year and for all the years to come._

_I had something of an epiphany during my last session with Dr. Wallace. I realized at last what Sherlock was holding back when he asked to help Harry—why it was so important to him. Objectively, he could see at the time what I could not: I am Harry. I know it sounds ridiculous, but as I look back, I see it so clearly. But for a few life choices, Harry’s life could have very well been mine. We were raised in the same crazy ultra-conservative Catholic home filled with alcohol, violence and homophobia. I can’t help thinking about what would have happened had I been the older child, if I had realized my sexuality first… Would I have been the one beaten and tossed out into the streets to fend for myself? Would I have sought out anything and everything to numb the pain of being unwanted, unloved…abnormal? Did Harry’s misfortune simply give me the opportunity to better hide who I was until I could escape?_

_I just don’t know…_

_As to the rest of our little family, Lestrade is focusing his time on being a single dad. His daughters are eight and eleven, and are, apparently, inconvenient to have around according to his ex. She basically dropped them off on his doorstep for his Christmas visitation and never came and picked them up. He’s filed the paperwork to get primary physical custody, and since his ex and her new boyfriend don’t want them, the custody change should be rubber stamped at the next hearing. He’s stressed out a lot more than he used to be, but he’s getting the hang of it. He seems happier than I’ve ever seen him as well. I’m glad for him; he deserves to finally catch a few breaks._

_Sherlock’s parents are talking about going on a six month world cruise but aren’t willing to commit until they see their son married. No pressure or anything._

_Nora leaves next week to visit her son, his wife and her grand kids in Toronto. It’s going to be an insane asylum around here without her. Sherlock is looking forward to experimenting in the kitchen again. He has the extra bedroom upstairs, which he spared no expense in turning it into a lab. It has a Murphy Bed that folds into the wall, so it can double as a guest room if need be, but it also has its own refrigerator, an upright freezer, a work table, and a really nice microscope, but Sherlock likes access to the sink and hot and cold running water._

_So long as he doesn’t burn down the flat, I’ll keep quiet._

_Molly has been the biggest surprise of all, or should I say Molly and Mycroft, as they seem to be an item now? They’ve been on three dates over the last five days, and I know she’s his guest for the New Year’s Eve party tonight too. I mean, if you go by her interest in Sherlock, she likes tall, slim, incredibly intelligent men with excellent fashion sense and a razor wit. Mycroft foots the bill nicely. I had no idea they’d hit it off so well when I nudged them together._

_Sherlock wasn’t nearly so pleased, and he stormed out of here like his Belstaff was on fire yesterday muttering something about Mycroft, Molly and goldfish. I had to rush so quickly to keep up, I forgot my wallet. Sherlock gave me a miffed look when he had to pay for the taxi ride to Mycroft’s house himself._

_He didn’t even bother ringing the bell, just walked in like he owned the place, cornered Mycroft in his office and demanded to know why he was “toying with Molly’s affections.” When Mycroft replied that she was a “tolerable enough goldfish,” Sherlock punched him in the face. Best right cross I think I’ve ever seen, and I’ve no doubts that Sherlock would have punched him again if Mycroft hadn’t been sprawled on the floor, severely obtunded, and gasping quite like a goldfish himself._

_Sometimes I forget that Sherlock will disappear for a day or two to engage in bare knuckles boxing, and he is a master of baritsu. Just because Sherlock never fought back either of the times I became violent, doesn’t mean he can’t fight._

_“Molly matters,” Sherlock said harshly, not even winded. What I understood that to mean was that Molly matters to Sherlock. By this point Mycroft was struggling to sit up._

_Being a doctor and possibly the only sane person in the room, I helped the poor man sit up and got a handkerchief pressed to his bleeding lip._

_“I may have phrased that badly, brother,” Mycroft conceded through a badly swelling, bleeding mouth. He sighed heavily and finally said, “I think Molly may be to me what John is to you.”_

_They then engaged in one of those staring contests, eyelids flickering as they communicated silently as only two siblings can. Whatever was “said” in those minutes seemed to pacify Sherlock. After a moment, he nodded, said, “Come, John,” and we left…just like that._

_I think that may make the top 10 list of strangest things Sherlock and I have ever done, and that’s saying something._

_I know Sherlock has had a much kinder disposition toward Molly since…well, since right before she helped him fake his suicide, but this depth of feeling surprised me…and made me wonder why he never pursued anything with Molly himself._

_Sherlock laughed like a loon when I asked him. “John, Molly is constitutionally incapable of standing up to me and telling me “NO.” That is something I could never refrain from taking advantage of. I know you believe that my brother and I are very similar, and in some regards that’s true. However, one crucial difference between us is that Mycroft would never take advantage and put her in a position where she should tell him “NO” for her own well-being.”_

_I will have to think about that for a while. Sherlock can be far more decent than I have given him credit for. We will still have our problems and miscommunications, as the cluster fuck surrounding Christmas Eve highlights in excruciating detail, and I am under no illusions that life with Sherlock is going to be some ‘happily ever after’ fairy tale, but I love him—warts and all…_

 

“Warts…I don’t have warts!” Sherlock thundered.

“Jesus, Sherlock,” John shouted as he grabbed his chest. “Are you trying to give me a heart attack? How long have you been reading over my shoulder anyway?” he asked as he slammed his laptop shut.

“Since Lestrade. Really, John….warts?”

“It’s an expression, Sherlock,” John sighed. “Is there something you wanted?”

“You asked me to remind you about Mycroft’s party. If we don’t leave in fifteen minutes, we’ll be late for dinner. We’re supposed to meet Mrs. Hudson downstairs. Mycroft’s sending a car at 7:45. Besides, I’m anxious to see the extent of the bruising on Mycroft’s petty, obnoxious, fat face,” Sherlock smirked craftily.

“Right,” John muttered as he stood up and headed for the loo. “Don’t touch that,” John called over his shoulder just as Sherlock’s fingers reached John’s computer.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. John knew him entirely too well.

* * * * * * * * *

Elsewhere at 221 Baker Street, Martha Hudson hummed quietly to herself as she surveyed her perfume options before selecting and daubing a bit of Chanel No. 5 behind each ear. Nothing like the tried and true staples after all.

Things were working out even better than she had planned. After trying for years to get her boys together--after all, Mrs. Turner had married ones, and she had no intentions of being outdone by Ida Turner--she’d finally hit upon the perfect plan.

Since they wouldn’t listen to her, she needed an agent: someone whose opinion they trusted, someone honourable and above reproach, someone with no apparent interest in their romantic exploits, and someone just a little bit gullible.

A few well-chosen words in Gregory Lestrade’s ear, a small—large-- application of ethyl alcohol, and just stand back and watch the fireworks.

In fact, it had worked out so well that she had decided to try it again. Sherlock’s dour brother and that sweet pathologist were perfect for each other. A few dropped hints, a subtle innuendo or two and John had caught right on. Silly boy. He even thought it was his own idea!

She giggled merrily as she slipped on her pumps and gave her appearance one last glance. As she waited for Sherlock and John, she considered. Third time’s the charm, after all, and a hat trick would put her one up on that smarmy Eustace McGinty too.

She considered carefully, checked the horoscope page one last time to be absolutely sure and decided finally that yes…that lovely Clara Burton and DI Lestrade would make a marvelous couple.

They were both so wounded by love but just so fundamentally kind and generous. They had each ended up in a relationship with users, people predisposed to take advantage of that sort of generosity of spirit. They deserved each other, deserved to get back all of the thoughtful and unselfish attentions they lavished on their partners.

She looked out the window and made her wish on the first star she saw.

Now, she just needed to select her agent for the evening… Sherlock, no he was certainly not gullible enough. Perhaps that nice Molly Hooper. Yes, she would do nicely.

She smiled a small, clever smile and quietly left her flat to ring in the New Year with her boys.

 

END

Chapter Notes: The goldfish reference comes from the episode The Empty Hearse. Mycroft bemoans the fact that his superior intelligence makes him feel as if he is “living in a world of goldfish” when he must interact with people of a lesser intellect, which is pretty much everyone.

A hat trick is a term used in ice hockey to refer to a player who scores three goals in the course of one game.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please, if you enjoyed this story at all, leave a comment. It doesn't even have to be much at all--just a word or two to let me know that something I wrote brightened your day a little.
> 
> Thanks,
> 
> Devi


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